“F

inally!” Yanky let out a dramatic sigh as he sank into Tzvika’s white leather couch. “Finally I’m back in the only place in the world where I can just be myself.”

“So happy to provide the service,” Tzvika replied, sitting down beside his friend.

“I felt like I was choking in London,” said Yanky. “I mean, we did pretty well as far as fundraising, but I’ve had it up to here with being Moreinu Reb Yankel, youngest son of the eminent mashpia, Hagaon Hatzaddik Reb Reuven Chaim Kleiner shlita. When a guy gets a chance to go to London, he wants to see Big Ben, the Crown Jewels, and Buckingham Palace, like any decent tourist, and—”

“Every decent tourist doesn’t get his ticket paid for by wealthy donors.” Tzvika smiled ruefully. “And being the eminent philanthropist, Harav Hachassid Reb Tzvi Hirsch Lubin, who funded Moreinu Hagaha”tz Reb Yankel’s trip, I must remind you to show some respect for your status. We expect bigger things of you than wistful thoughts of visiting the wax museum.”

“I could have gone to the Changing of the Guard and given the perfect derashah there,” said Yanky. He stood up, his eyes burning and his two fists gesticulating emotionally. “Tayere yungeleit! See how these soldiers do their duty! From these human robots, who have trained themselves to ignore every personal desire for the honor of a queen of basar v’dam, we can get just a faint glimpse of what it means to be a soldier of the King. Tourists come and go, snapping pictures and chattering, joking and giggling, and trying all sorts of antics to distract them and make these soldiers smile, yet they stand their ground, unwavering, not moving a muscle… without a thought for the pomp and pageantry inside the queen’s gates, they think only of their singular mission…”

“Moreini Reb Yankel gave a stirring derashah,” Tzvika read from an imaginary newspaper. “The historic visit of Harav Hatzaddik Reb Reuven Chaim Kleiner and his son was fully funded by prominent philanthropists, most notably Hanadiv Harabbani HaTorani Reb Tzvi Hirsch Lubin of Ashdod, who specified that his contribution was to remain anonymous and unreported in the media.”

Yanky sank back into the couch. His shoulders slumped and the fire went out of his eyes. “What’s going to be, Tzvika… what’s going to be?”

“It’s going to be all right. As long as we can meet once a week in my office and learn together for an hour, and just be ourselves…”

“What’s going to be with this horrible olam hasheker? Now they describe you with all these honorifics. No one ever called you by all these titles when you sat up all night in yeshivah trying to figure out Chardal and Lo Yachpor. But now, when you barely find an hour a day for Daf Yomi, you’re at the forefront of the Torah world.”

“While you, my friend, serve as meishiv in a yeshivah, and in your spare time you travel with your father to London to fan the flames of Torah and chassidus among our people.”

(Excerpted from Mishpacha, Issue 758)