All I Ask: Postscript

Soon after the first chapters were published, the questions and doubts came
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It was early morning, the 11th of Tishrei, and the Succos issue of Mishpacha was waiting outside on my doorstep. Along with all the special Yom Tov supplements, the marketing department had added a CD to the package. Already after Tishah B’Av they’d begun dropping hints about the exclusive musical production that would be available only to Mishpacha subscribers and purchasers to enhance their Yom Tov.
A bochur, tefillin bag in hand, approached our house. He must have been on his way to Shacharis, that first pristine Shacharis after Yom Kippur. He bent down, delicately tore the plastic wrapper that held our Yom Tov Mishpacha, slipped the CD out, and hurried away with it.
We saw him from the window, but by the time we realized what had happened and went out to check whether our eyes had been deceiving us, there was no one to pursue.
The subscription department sent us a replacement for the stolen disk. So we had our music — but the incident left a deep, troubling imprint on me.
If, in the heart of a chareidi neighborhood, with the cries of Ne’ilah still echoing, a bochur in chassidic garb, carrying his tefillin, could enter a private yard and help himself to someone else’s property, then, then…
Then that meant he could murmur Kol Nidrei and five tefillos, and say Vidui ten times, fasting and shuckeling with his machzor open before him — and the next morning, go and steal.
And then go on to Shacharis, and shuckel some more, with his siddur open before him.
Maybe it was time to tell a story about people like that, I thought, about people who were withered, empty shells. Or about people who could end up like that, if nobody caught them in time. The people who stood with the rest of us, reciting the words in the machzor; who picked up the lulav with the rest of us and shook it right, left, up, down, and danced on Simchas Torah, and lit the Chanukah candles. The people who ticked off all the boxes.
What’s it like being one of them? I wondered. What goes on in such a person’s mind? What do they feel? What song sings in their heart (aside from the ones on our CD), and what cry of sorrow secretly steals out at night? They put on a good show, that’s for sure. Their friends and relatives don’t usually notice a thing. Only the wife at home watches with a fearful heart, and sometimes, even she doesn’t know…
The seed of All I Ask began to germinate, and I remain indebted to that bochur who made off with a CD and gave me a story.
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