Mama didn’t bring Bubbe’s letter up again, so I knew we weren’t moving to Europe. There was nothing to talk about

Dovid

T

he house was quiet when I got home. The bochurim weren’t back yet, and the little kids were asleep. Even Miriam and Elka were in their beds. Only Mama was up in the kitchen waiting for me.

“Dovid’l?” Mama called out, “is that you?”

“Yes, Mama,” I replied, stepping into the kitchen.

“Are you okay, Dovid?”

Mama looked worried. Somewhere in my chest, I felt a little flutter of panic. Did Elka say something?

“I’m fine, Mama,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and steady. “Why?”

“You’re just a little late, that’s all,” Mama replied. “Are you hungry?”

I nodded, and she stood up to get a bowl down from the shelf. “I can serve myself, Mama,” I protested, reaching for the bowl, but Mama waved me off.

“No, no. I’ll serve you. My Dovid’l — my budding talmid chacham. You spend your whole day in yeshivah. Rest now, and I’ll serve you some food.”

If there was any way to make me feel guilty, that was it. Mama wanted to see me learning, but I wasn’t. Even when I was learning with my chavrusa, and that was happening less and less these days, my head wasn’t in it. I couldn’t focus.

“You know, Dovid,” Mama sat down across from me and placed the china bowl down in front of my place, “we had some excitement here today.”

“Really?” I asked, lifting my spoon and making a brachah before taking a bite. “What did I miss?”

“Bubbe wrote. She wants us to come move to Riga and live near her.”