He held the door open for the man (weirdo!) and his son, noting the fact that the mother wasn’t there, which was fine. Not every bochur came with both parents.

He ushered them into the conference room and made a point of closing the door, both to assure them of privacy and also, so that Mrs. Minsky should get the point. He was using the room now.

Shlomo Bass was 18 years old, according to his father, who was clearly the sort who did the talking. This made Yerachmiel nervous, and he tried addressing the young man directly.

“Where were you last zeman?” he asked.

Shlomo Bass looked uncomfortable, and in a voice that was a near whisper, he said, “At Rabbi Levy’s.” He opened his mouth, about to say something else, but his father spoke first.

“Rabbi Levy, in Lakewood,” he said, adding nothing at all.

“And why the change?” asked Yerachmiel, trying to address the boy, who had unconsciously moved his chair over away from his father by about a half a foot.

Pinchas Bass, who was clearly European, moved back in. “It wasn’t a good fit, Shlomo was on a different level than the others. He’s very bright,” he turned and nodded at his son, as if to confirm with him, “very bright. But he’s also quiet, so rebbeim don’t realize how bright he is.”

Yerachmiel caught the jab and wasn’t going to let it go. “Actually, it’s my experience that rebbeim are very good, they aren’t fooled by quiet, they know where the boys are holding, and Rabbi Levy, in particular, is a superstar.”

“A superstar,” Pinchas Bass repeated, his eyebrows rising. “What an American term. As if he’s a football player.”

He waved his hand dismissively.

“Let’s move forward, if we may.”

Yerachmiel knew two things. One, that he didn’t like the man seated across from him and two, that he really wanted to help this boy.

“I had planned on sending him to Europe, to Gateshead, actually, for Elul zeman. That was the hope…” his voice trailed off, and he looked back at his son.

“And what happened?” Yerachmiel asked.

“What happened is that Shlomo got cold feet, as they say. It’s too big of a jump. Maybe after Succos, we’ll see.”

The boy colored, a pink hue spreading from his cheeks up to the roots of his jet black hair, and Yerachmiel wanted to come around the table and embrace him.

“Tell me about some of the other yeshivos you learned in, Shlomo, tell me about where you were matzliach, also about where things weren’t as easy. I want to find you the right place.”

The boy looked at his father, as if for permission to talk.

“I think I’m a pretty normal bochur,” he said, and colored even more deeply at this admission.

“No, you’re not, you’re above average,” the father interjected, “certainly in kishron. Certainly.”

Yerachmiel Plaut had a thought at that moment. He didn’t know much about Sholom Wasser. Generally, the fact that a rebbi didn’t work well with a menahel was a red flag, but he’d met Sholom Wasser once or twice, and there was something about the man, a certain sincerity that might be a good match for the subdued young man in front of him.

Also, there weren’t many yeshivos that would accept bochurim two days into the zeman, even if Rabbi Plaut did one of his emergency requests and called in favors.

This wasn’t a regular case. There was no time for the usual due diligence, and this was a boy who needed space, quick.

Sholom Wasser probably wasn’t picky. He’d pulled together a group of bochurim he knew personally, a collection — according to the menahel who’d let Sholom Wasser go — of “rejects and gimmel bochurim.”

“Look, Reb Pinchas,” Rabbi Plaut smiled, suddenly feeling generous. This was a good idea, maybe one of his best. “I’m not sure we have that many options at this point in the zeman, but I do have an idea, a great rosh yeshivah, a new yeshivah, nice boys. It’s in Modena.”

Pinchas Bass looked pleased for the first time. “Modena, Italy?”

This threw Rabbi Plaut off his game, but only for a moment. “No, no, Modena up the Thruway, you know. Not that far from here.”

“Ah.” Pinchas was clearly disappointed. “What makes you recommend it for Shlomo?”

“Just the high level, all around,” Rabbi Plaut replied and he knew he’d won. “I just have to speak to Rabbi Wasser now, the rosh yeshivah, and see if he would take one more… I’ll call you later today so we don’t have to waste any more time.”

Pinchas Bass nodded, as if he were a banker approving a mortgage, and looked over at his son. “Thank you, Rabbi, thank you for your help.”

He stood up and smiled and Yerachmiel Plaut felt bad for him. He was just a father who wanted the best for his son, like all fathers.

The boy, Yerachmiel was certain, had a secret. He wasn’t sure what, but there was something that had come into the room with them, and it hadn’t yet left.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 793)