It wasn’t that she didn’t think he was worthy; it was that she’d long ago made peace with the fact that the people weren’t worthy. Her husband was special, she believed that. She was happy to work long hours and keep the kids happy so that he could do his thing. At the same time, she didn’t think this yeshivah, or any yeshivah, would work out. That wasn’t where her Sholom would shine.

She wanted pictures for that reason. One day, she reasoned, Chana Malka and Pessy would be older, and she would be the one telling them about the responsibilities of a wife, and what it means to be supportive of your husband — she could envision it already — and then she would pull out the photo albums and the kids would be like, “Oh, gosh, remember Modena?”

They would laugh and Sholom would look at her with that mix of respect and disbelief and say, “Your mother, she’s made of special stuff,” and maybe they would even indulge in happy memories, the old hotel smell of her yeshivah apartment, the mildew and trapped humidity. Terrence had been in to fix her sink, again, and she’d heard him murmuring, in a pained voice, “Poor, poor maintenance here, very poor, as if no one cares.”

She wondered if they would even know the Portmans in ten years from now. Would she and Henny Portman pass each other in Shloimy’s and smile vacantly? Would they reminisce about the time they’d spent under the same sagging roof?

Henny was also being a sport, Penina had to admit, moving in to that room at the end of the dormitory for Yom Tov and joining the yeshivah for meals. Penina liked her, appreciated Henny’s honest, candid way of speaking. She wondered how Henny Portman viewed Sholom, if she thought he had what it took.

Krias HaTorah ended and Chezky Lorb, the gabbai, banged and announced that tekias shofar would be at eleven thirty, jolting her back to reality. Penina noted that being gabbai seemed to be doing the boy good; there was something assertive in the way he’d made the announcement.

*****

Before Minchah on the first day of Rosh Hashanah, Sholom Wasser went for a short walk to get a breath of fresh air. He was drained, but also exhilarated. The tefillos had been beautiful — Sholom couldn’t imagine that Yossele Rosenblatt or whoever could have done a better job than Shuey had done with the davening. One niggun, Sholom couldn’t remember it now, but in his mind, it was already called the Modena Niggun, would be sung not just in this yeshivah on the Yamim Noraim, but in many future yeshivos as well.

The Ribbono shel Olam had been so good to him! He paused near the row of trees and looked up at the sky, the sunlight surprisingly strong for late afternoon. He filled his lungs with clear air, wishing he could exhale in a way that would convey to the bochurim — his talmidim, his talmidim — what he was feeling, that there was only HaKadosh Baruch Hu and His kindness. This was Rosh Hashanah.

The world was new. He thought back to last Rosh Hashanah, when he’d been davening to make it through the year in peace, without getting fired. He’d known that the menahel had it in for him, that his number would be called sooner or later.

Then it had happened, and the one who’d been there at the time — Avi Korman — became the agent of such brachah. He shook his head back and forth, marveling now at the precision of the Master Plan. He couldn’t tell the bochurim the story, of course, but he would have to find a way to let them know what Hashgachah means, the perfection of the Ribbono shel Olam’s Kingdom.

He closed his eyes to think.

Thirty feet away, Penina sat on the creaky porch of their little house watching her husband. In the morning, during davening, her heart hadn’t opened up and she hadn’t been able to really daven. Instead, she’d wondered about who had davened Pesukei D’zimra (Ephraim Milner) and if the Monsey caterer had sent enough cake for the kiddush too.

But now she felt raw and open and vulnerable; this morning’s indifference had given way to real concern. There was an open Tehillim in her lap as she davened. Penina Wasser did not cry, but as she watched her husband standing by the trees, swaying back and forth, tears formed in her eyes.

Earlier in the week she’d sent Kalman and Chana Malka to new schools and she hadn’t cried. She’d told them it would be fine and they would love it. She didn’t wonder or worry about them all day like other mothers did, and she fully expected that they would look forward to going to school by the end of the week. So why was this sight tearing at her heart? Why didn’t she have the same confidence in Sholom as she did in her children?

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 806)