“Rebbetzin!” An elderly man across the street, setting his briefcase down in the back seat of his car, lifts his hand in a jaunty wave.
I smile back as I herd the boys to the bus stop.
I’m never going to get used to that. New house and street? Sure. New schools for the boys? Okay. New job for Mordy? I can handle it.
But being called Rebbetzin feels so foreign, like walking into the pediatrician’s office where I work and being addressed as doctor without going to medical school, without completing a residency, without getting hired. And it comes with a slew of questions, like do I wave back, or is that inappropriate? And am I supposed to wish him a good morning, too? Would a rebbetzin wish him a good morning? And you see him every morning, why can’t you remember his name? Will he think less of Mordy if you don’t?
It comes to me just in time, and I settle for a smile and a “Good morning, Mr. Berger.” Crisis averted.
Rabbi Mordechai Gelman earned his positions as the new rav of Kehilas Yisrael of Edgeview and consulting rabbi for the Vaad of Edgeview. He came as a guest speaker twice, got to know the neighborhood, and wowed them all with his charisma and energy. His wife, Mindy? She was nervous and smiley when she joined him for the second audition-visit, stumbling to greet each person in shul and not totally ruin her husband’s dreams.
My one new friend, Chevi, tells me that the community thought I was sweet and easy to talk to, their only prerequisites for their rebbetzin. So at least I’m good at hiding exactly how much I’m faking it.
A genuine smile spreads onto my face when I spot Chevi at the bus stop, though. She’s with her own boys, one of whom is scootering down the block at top sped while she yells after him, “Yaakov! Get back here! You’re going to miss the bus!”
She turns to me and heaves a sigh. “Mindy!” Chevi’s the only one here who calls me by my first name instead of Rebbetzin. When we first met and instantly bonded, I begged her to let me be Mindy with her, at least, a single friend in a sea of strangers. “I am so not driving him to school. I have to get to Krantz’s before work.”
“I’m doing a Walmart run after work today if you want me to pick something up,” I offer. My office is just across the street from the Walmart parking lot, which has been a gift for dinner planning.
“No, I have to pick up meats and chicken. Anyway, I like to go to Krantz’s for my Shabbos shopping. Support our kosher grocery, you know?”
Only Chevi would do her Shabbos shopping on a Monday morning. I bob my head up and down. “Definitely.” In Lakewood, there had been a surfeit of options for kosher groceries. Here, it’s one small mart and Krantz’s, and the people of Edgeview are fiercely proud of it. I’ve even been grudgingly impressed at Krantz’s Grocery’s operation — the number of vendors, the in-house bakery, the deli with so many options for small and out-of-town. Even some non-Jews in the neighborhood shop there for high-quality, expensive goods.
Yaakov returns to the bus stop and Chevi looks me over now, her eyes narrowed as though she can see right through me. “How is Rochel?” she asks in a low tone.
“She’s… adjusting. I think it’s just hard for her, starting high school all over again in March. And the girls here are already so tight-knit.” Chevi’s daughter has been looking out for mine, but she’s two years older and can only do so much. I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time spilling my heart out to Chevi about my kids and our adjustment period.
“It’s only been a few months,” Chevi says reassuringly. “Give it a little more time —Yaakov, no! The bus is here!” She grabs her son by the backpack before he can take off again and retrieves the scooter.
The bus pulls up, the kids climb on, and Chevi spares me a warm smile. “See you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” I agree as we turn in opposite directions, heading back to our houses.
I might never feel like I belong in Edgeview. But at least I’ve got Chevi.
I serve dinner in shifts — five thirty for the little ones and six thirty for my middle schoolers, high schooler, and Mordy, who drops by before Minchah-Maariv and the night shiur. The little kids got chicken nuggets, but I make a grilled steak salad for the older crew who might appreciate it more.
“This is the best,” Rochel sighs, eating like she’s been starving all day. She’s been eating her feelings lately, but I don’t comment on it. It’s been a rough transition.
“Mmm,” Mordy agrees, though he seems lost in thought. “Is this a different cut of meat than usual?”
“The deli guy at Krantz’s recommended it. Said it gets surprisingly tender if you marinate it for an hour.”
“Amazing,” Mordy says, but I can tell that his heart isn’t in it.
I wait until the kids have dispersed to homework and friends before I can ask him what’s going on. Mordy looks even more troubled.
“It’s Krantz’s,” he says. “I think we’re going to have to remove their Vaad certification.”
“What? But it’s—” I shake my head, bewildered. “It’s Krantz’s.”
“A powerhouse,” Mordy agrees. “All those vendors….” He sighs heavily. “This was an ongoing issue before I came here. Krantz’s has a little habit of skimming off their vendors’ earnings. They’ve been caught at it, fixed the issue, and the Vaad thought it had been dealt with. Apparently not. And this time, we found out that the problem was so much worse than we thought.”
He sets his plate down in the sink. “They’ve been taking huge sums of money that were deli counter earnings. The older couple who run the deli counter have been getting half of what they should be. And they’ve been doing it for years, even while they were working with the Vaad on the other issues we named.”
“So what do you do? Do they have to pay a fee, or go to beis din?”
“No. We can’t work with them anymore. They just can’t be trusted.” He leans forward, his face grave. “We gave them an option. Either they sell the store or we make a statement officially removing our certification and recommending that the klal stops shopping there. And they don’t seem willing to sell.”
Oh. Oh.
Not to make this about me, but everyone in this town is going to hate us.
The news arrives the next afternoon via a message on the Edgeview Updates WhatsApp chat, an image of a letter signed by the Vaad and my husband in particular.
I don’t even see it at first. I hear someone in the waiting room say loudly, “Krantz’s?”
She looks up. I look up. Our eyes meet, and she says, “Rebbetzin Gelman, is this true?”
I glance down. Read the letter.
It’s vague, mentions standards of kashrus and necessary actions. It explicitly informs the community that daas torah recommends not shopping there anymore. Obviously, the Vaad can’t explain the minutiae of the situation to the whole neighborhood. But I find that I have nothing to say to the narrow-eyed woman watching me on the other side of the glass.
“I’m afraid it is,” I offer. “Hopefully, it’ll be resolved quickly.”
“Uh-huh.” The woman doesn’t say anything, but she shoots me a few wary looks before I finally call her into one of the exam rooms.
I get a few more stares from patients as the day goes on, and by the end of it, I’m prickling with them and I kind of want to cry. We’re just settling into this neighborhood. Do we need to uproot it all right away?
“It’s just politics, isn’t it?” Dr. Grossman asks me when we’re closing up for the day. “These new little groceries keep opening and shutting down because they can’t compete with Krantz’s.”
“No, it’s… I’m sure that the Vaad wouldn’t make a statement like this without good reason,” I say weakly. It sounds less convincing when it comes from me.
“Well, it’s your husband’s name on the letter,” Dr. Grossman says. “I guess he’s willing to stand behind it.” She pulls on her jacket. “Between you and me, we’re out of yogurts at home. I’ve got to pick them up somewhere. But they’re all prepackaged, anyway. Unless the Vaad has an issue with the OU, too?” She’s smiling, but there’s an air of challenge to it.
The last thing I want right now is to get confrontational with my boss. “It’s an issue with shopping at the store,” I mumble.
Dr. Grossman doesn’t answer, only eyes me shrewdly. “Have a good one, Rebbetzin,” she says, and the door shuts firmly behind her.
I stop at Walmart before heading home. Mistake. A woman walks over to me as I exit the store, juggling shopping bags and a phone call from the babysitter.
“You have some nerve,” she says sharply. “You know that?” Then she turns on her heel and stalks off.
Apparently, it’s open season on the Gelmans. There are other names associated with the Vaad — the mashgiach, the rabbanim who advise from other towns — but it’s Mordy who gets the brunt of the hostility.
Some people shop at the smaller mart, a tiny grocery without much of a selection, and they smile encouragingly at me when I see them there. The manager of the mart offers me a parsonage discount the first time I go. I see eyes on me immediately, phones flicking open, and hastily turn it down.
And a significant number of people — people I know from shul, who call me Rebbetzin and have come to us for Shabbos meals, who have been effusive and welcoming and respectful — keep shopping at Krantz’s. When I drive past, slow down, and catch someone’s eye as she packs her bags into her trunk, she looks brazenly unapologetic.
It’s just politics, I hear over and over.
The Vaad is supposed to make sure things are kosher, not play games.
Who does Rabbi Gelman think he is, the Vaadfather?
But the worst of it is two days later, on Thursday morning, when I head to the bus stop, same as every other morning. Today, Mr. Berger avoids my eyes and hurries into his car, and I swallow past the lump in my throat and brighten when I see who’s already waiting at the bus stop. Chevi’s boys missed the bus yesterday, and it’s a relief to see her today.
She is hastily doing kriah with her first grader, a plastic shell of mini cupcakes perched on her knee. “Good! Great job.” She passes a cupcake to her son, and as I walk up next to Chevi, I can’t help but glance down at the label on the shell. Krantz’s Bakery, dated two days ago.
Okay. Chevi shops early in the day. Maybe she’d been there before the Vaad’s missive.
“Morning,” I say, as cheerfully as I can. Today feels a little bit like it’s all falling apart, but it’s more manageable with Chevi.
Usually.
Not today.
Chevi gives me a curt nod, then turns to her second grader, adjusting his collar. “I don’t care if Moishy says to put it inside out. Moishy is not the be-all and end-all of fashion. This is more menschlich.” She doesn’t turn back, keeping up a stream of conversation with her children.
Menschlich would be acknowledging me, or asking me about the Vaad’s ruling, but I don’t say anything. I just stand there at the corner, my oblivious boys playing freely with Chevi’s, waiting for the bus and feeling very alone.
Shabbos is a nightmare. For the past three months, I’ve been greeted on entry to shul with bright smiles and warm eyes. Today, I push my stroller in to averted and hostile stares, to women suddenly engrossed in the leining like never before. An older woman offers me a sympathetic look, and I hurry over to her like a famished woman staggering toward an oasis.
When Mordy gets up for the derashah before Mussaf, there is a tense silence at first. Then men start murmuring, low voices that make their way through the mechitzah.
“I said from the start that he was too right-wing for us….”
“These in-town guys, they think that they can throw around their weight….”
“Has to adapt to our culture here….”
My face is flaming. I know that there are eyes on me, and I stare determinedly straight ahead. Mordy ignores it all and delivers his derashah as though there are no naysayers in the shul. He talks about the meraglim, about how easily an emotional mob can dismiss trusted authorities in the face of naysayers.
It’s pointed, to say the least. It might even be throwing fuel on the fire. And I can barely bring myself to face the other women at the kiddush at the end of davening (catered this week by Edgeview Kosher Mart, whose cholent is burnt, as several people loudly note).
But they seem to be waiting for me. They crowd around as soon as I walk in with Rochel.
“Look, I always respected the Vaad under Rabbi Myerstein,” Shari Friedman says. “I would never eat at a restaurant without a hechsher. But it’s not like Walmart or Costco have a hechsher, either. Why shouldn’t we shop at a grocery store without one?”
“You’re from Lakewood,” another woman says kindly. “You don’t really get what it means to have one really great supermarket. We’re going to put Krantz’s out of business if we don’t shop there.”
“That’s their parnassah,” points out a third. “How does your husband justify taking away a livelihood from all the workers at Krantz’s?”
“No, I heard they’re going to get a hechsher from the Maytown Vaad,” someone else chimes in. “It’s just politics, you know? They probably didn’t want to pay the premiums, so the Vaad got mad.”
On it goes, and I plaster a tightlipped smile on my face and try to respond. Yes, I know it’s difficult. No, I have no doubts about the Vaad’s decision. Yes, I’m sure the Vaad consulted with other daas torah first. No, I’m not shopping there, either.
Chevi is usually my buffer with all these women. Today, she stands on the other side of the room, schmoozing with the women who glared at me when I walked in.
Mordy is giving a shiur in the other room, and I usually like to stick around until he’s done, but today, I collect the kids as soon as it’s socially acceptable and flee. Rochel is uncharacteristically quiet on the walk home, and I nudge her as the younger boys run ahead. “Everything okay?”
“Nothing is okay,” she says dully. “One of my teachers asked me about Krantz’s during our finals review. And the girls at shul who I actually like won’t even talk to me.” She scuffs her shoe against the sidewalk. “It’s just… why did Tatty have to do this now? Couldn’t he have worked something out with the store until he… until we were here a little longer?”
I give her a helpless shrug. “He has to do what he thinks is right. And we have to stand beside him. It’ll be over soon. Krantz’s will sell eventually.”
But Krantz’s doesn’t cave under the pressure.
It becomes an obsession, driving past there every morning and afternoon on the way to work. And maybe it’s just my imagination, but it seems like business is booming. Some people have decided to make a point of shopping at Krantz’s daily, I see. The parking lot is still fairly full, though not as full as it had been before the Vaad’s letter.
Another week passes. The novelty of the lost hechsher fades, and I get fewer curious questions, more averted eyes. Mr. Berger starts nodding to me in the mornings, though I find that I miss that effusive “Rebbetzin!” greeting as the days stretch on.
Chevi still doesn’t talk to me at the bus stop, even as the end of school looms.
Even though it’s June, it’s still too chilly to be out late, but the temperature is finally warm enough to bring the younger kids out to the playground a few blocks away. They run around with everyone else, gleeful and carefree, and I sit alone on a bench and watch them, fidgeting with my phone.
The first time I came here, it was during that warm stretch in May right after we’d first moved in. Everyone had flocked over to speak to me, and I had felt the intense pressure of performing, of being the rebbetzin they expected me to be. To earn smiles and respect, to be liked as much as they’d all liked Mordy.
This time, only one woman smiles at me. When Chevi walks into the park, gingerly pushing the gate open so her boys can scooter in, I want to scream. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be reminded every single moment of how much I’ve lost here, gone in an instant with a single signed letter.
I call the kids over and take them home, my frustration rising. It isn’t fair. Rochel’s right. Why did Mordy have to do this now? If the Vaad had negotiated with Krantz’s before, then why not do it again now? Why take such a hard line when we’re so new here, before we’ve earned everyone’s love and respect?
Mordy has appointments until late tonight, and by the time he walks in after the late-night shiur, I’ve worked myself into a fury.
“I don’t think you should have done it,” I say as he hangs up his hat.
“What?” Mordy looks puzzled.
“We’re just — we’re still guests here, don’t you get it? And now everyone hates us, and what am I supposed to do? Rochel was already struggling at school. No one talks to me at the park. Dr. Grossman thinks it’s some ploy to support smaller businesses — people keep insisting that the Maytown Vaad is going to step in—” It all pours out of me at once, accusing and disjointed and stressed. “Chevi doesn’t talk to me anymore—”
“It wasn’t a popular decision,” Mordy says reasonably, “but it was necessary. You know that. If a business isn’t kosher, it isn’t kosher. We have an obligation to—”
“You do! But why did we all get dragged into it?”
“Well, you’re my rebbetzin.” There was a time when that statement would have made me smile, a little nauseous but very touched. Today, it feels like an anchor dragging me down into the sea, leaving me helpless to claw my way to the surface.
Mordy must see it on my face, because his smile fades. “Mindy,” he says. “I know. I didn’t want to do this, either. But what else could I do?”
It’s why I’ve always admired him — because he does what’s right, because he stands up for what he believes in. But the kehillah needs him. Yes, a small group have gone totally hostile. But they’re mostly still calling with their sh’eilos. Some are still making appointments with him for counseling. He still gets up on Shabbos and gives a derashah and gives shiurim that are missing only a few men from before. The men can overlook a grocery store morass.
But the women are less forgiving, and I am trapped in the middle of it. I can’t escape this role of Rebbetzin, and I’m doing it all wrong.
What good is a rebbetzin resented by all?
Rochel is deep in finals season now, no school except review classes and tests. She’s joined a finals carpool that picks her up at 8:20 a.m., ten minutes after the boys get picked up, so I’ve started sending her to the bus stop with the boys so I don’t need to face Chevi. A coward’s way out, I know, but I need a break from… from all of it. From awkward silences and tense avoidance.
But one morning, she doesn’t come back at the usual time, and her carpool is due soon. The bus must be late, and so I heave a sigh and head toward the next block to relieve her.
I’m startled to spot, as I approach, that Chevi is talking to Rochel. What is she saying? Is she demanding answers from my ninth grader that she’d been too afraid to ask of me?
They’re both turned away from me, and they don’t hear me coming. But I hear them, and my heart skips a beat when I grasp what they’re saying.
“It wasn’t like that,” Rochel says, and she sounds nervous. “It wasn’t… I didn’t even go inside. The other girls wanted to get ice cream from the freezer section. I just stood in front.”
“Everyone’s talking about it,” Chevi tells her. “They keep saying that even the Gelmans still shop at Krantz’s.”
“It’s not true! I didn’t go in,” Rochel says in a low voice, but I can hear her clearly. “I didn’t.”
“If she says she didn’t, then I believe her,” I say coolly from behind them. Rochel twists around, pale, and I offer her a reassuring smile. “Your carpool will be here soon. Don’t forget to grab your sandwich from the counter.”
As soon as she’s gone, I clear my throat. Chevi is already looking away, finding some reason to chide her son. I don’t wait for her to finish. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t get my daughter involved with community issues.” There is a cold rage burning beneath my skin, making my words emerge like ice.
“Your family is involved,” Chevi says, hot anger to my cold fury. “We welcomed you in — I welcomed you in — and you immediately went after our foundation. You immediately dismantled the most important institution in our town. So if people are saying that Rochel Gelman is shopping at Krantz’s, well… that’s everyone’s business.”
I stare at her, so taken aback that I can’t respond for a minute. How dare she? How could she drag my daughter into this and still act as though she has the high ground?
I think about Rochel’s pale, apologetic face. About the boys still running around together, oblivious to the tension between us. About the stares and tension, the distance that feels like it keeps widening between us.
And I know that Chevi is right about one thing.
Your family is involved. We are. We can’t extricate ourselves from Mordy’s position, from the responsibilities that we have to the klal. I had seen the responsibility of a rebbetzin as pleasant smiles and understanding words, as being this fake-warm persona until I succeeded in making a place for myself here. But I’m not so sure anymore.
The bus pulls up at last, and our boys race onto it without looking back. Chavi and I stand in silence as it pulls away. The rage drains out of me, leaving clarity behind.
“I think,” I say carefully, “that the foundation of the community should be daas torah, not a grocery store. And I think that’s what you all wanted when you brought us here.” Hadn’t they? Despite their resentment now, they had chosen Mordy for his integrity. For his hashkafos and his devotion to Torah and halacha. It might mean that they were unhappy with him right now, but he’s only doing what they’d wanted from him.
We all are.
Chevi lets out a bitter scoff. “Very helpful. Thanks, Rebbetzin.”
She says it like an insult, like a mockery of the position. She turns away to stalk back home.
And then she hesitates. “Look. It’s not about daas torah,” she says, wheeling around. “I stoppedshopping at Krantz’s when the Vaad took away their hechsher, okay? And it’s been… a huge pain. But I’m doing it.” She pulls at a sleeve with the opposite hand, a nervous gesture. “I’ll follow daas torah, even if I don’t agree with it. I just… I don’t think it’s right that you put us all in this position.”
She turns back in a huff and strides away, turning back once. Our eyes lock, and my heart falters.
It had been a treat, having a friend here, with the warmth and belonging and validation that had come along with her. But it had been a gift that had come with an expiration date. Maybe one day Chevi and I will thaw to each other, will talk things out and forgive. But something has changed between us irrevocably.
I walk back home. On the way, I spot Mr. Berger, in a hurry as he jogs out of his house. He’s running late today, but I catch his eye and say clearly, “Good morning, Mr. Berger.”
He stops in his tracks and stares at me. Maybe it’s just that I haven’t done anything more than offering him a nod and a smile since the debacle had begun. Or maybe I’m carrying myself a little differently today. I feel a little different. More confident, more at peace.
Then his wrinkled face splits into a beam. “Morning, Rebbetzin!” he calls out cheerfully.
I breathe in the crisp June air, feel the sun warm on my skin. And I smile.
That’s me. I’m the rebbetzin.
