“Jacobs, you’re from Baltimore, you probably know real English, write him some good words,

come on…”

"O

oooh mamesh the next Ishay Rebo,” Boruch Zeldman crowed. “Someone needs to get you a black shirt and you’re all set.”

“Oh stop it, I just used a few Hebrew words, that’s all.” Chesky Lorb lowered the guitar and used his freed-up hand to push his glasses back up on his nose. “I don’t know too much Hebrew. I just thought it was cute.”

“You though it was cute to use Lev Sheli in the first five words? You didn’t chap that it’s like, a total rip-off from Ribo?” Zeldman’s tone was teasing, not mocking, and Lorb laughed easily.

“Okay, okay, I’ll change it. I have other Hebrew words I know. Kisei. Shulchan. Mah Koreh achi. That’s it.”

“Hashulchan sheli, that’s going to be a megahit,” Dovi Korman said slowly, “I can see it.”

Lorb, not sure if it was a joke or not, looked up hopefully. “You serious? What does that mean, isn’t like it, like,” he paused and translated in his mind, “the table of mine?”

Dovi Korman felt badly and quickly backtracked. “It was a joke. Those aren’t the greatest words, but you do have an awesome voice and watching you work the guitar strings is something else. You’re a beast.”

Chesky Lorb brightened and Dovi reminded himself, again, that not everyone was Boruch Zeldman who was used to his deadpan style of speaking.

“Maybe drop the Hebrew, the oilam here will help you with English lyrics.” Dovi said this seriously; Lorb could play and the song was nice.

“Yeah,” Harari said as he jumped off the table where he’d been sitting. “Yeah, so maskim. Something like, Yerushalayim, sunshine, believe, heart, blah blah Shabbos, does that work?”

Noach Perensky got into it. “Then like, a really dramatic violin solo and boom, Lorb, you burst in with another round of the high part, the oilam is mamesh crying along.”

“Wait.” Dovi Korman had an inspiration. “Jacobs, you’re from Baltimore, you probably know real English, write him some good words, come on…”

Jacobs looked up and blushed with pleasure. “Me? Sure.”

Shuey Portman, standing just outside the door to the dormitory room, was frozen. He had never eavesdropped on a conversation before and it felt rotten. Even in his old office, when he knew that Mr. Kohl and the boys were having a meeting about him and he could have easily overheard every single word from the closet near the bathroom, he didn’t care to listen. It wasn’t his style.

But this was chinuch. The rosh yeshivah had asked him to find a way to reach Shlomo Bass, and this was it. He kept waiting for someone to mention his name: “You know, we should really speak to Mr. Portman about this, he knows the business inside and out and has music flowing through his veins,” or, “Let’s play it for Mr. Portman, he’ll know in one second if it has the right vibe.”