She didn’t need the attention, but she did wish that people had heard of the yeshivah. She couldn’t wait for the day when she would see a flash of recognition in people’s eyes when they heard the name “Modena.” She wanted it to be like Philly or Long Beach or South Fallsburg, “Oh, my nephew learned there and he did wonderful,” or “Yes, we have many boys from our neighborhood there, they love it. So nice!”

Like she kept reassuring Sholom, it would come. He was following the plan perfectly, focused on his boys and working hard. It would come.

She had seen the bochurim who’d come to dance with her husband on Simchas Torah. She had felt the affection in the room when he spoke at the Simchas Beis Hashoeivah. Something was happening, and her husband was the one making it happen.

As she drove up the Thruway, mountains tinged with orange showing the first hint of autumn, she allowed herself to dream. Generations of talmidim would be familiar with this highway, would speak fondly of the turn-off, remember the large iron wheelbarrow at the corner of Newport Road.

She didn’t need an upscale dinner and she didn’t need honor. All she wanted was a bit of recognition for the yeshivah that Sholom had built with his ten fingers, the bochurim he was carrying every single day.

*****

Shuey Portman made sure he was alone in the hallway leading to his small apartment, and then gave a little jump, as if he were on stage.

He knew he wasn’t thinking calmly, that he needed to process the idea before going to the rosh yeshivah so that it was coherent and clear, but he was enjoying the fantasy too much to let it go.

He let himself into the privacy of his apartment and spun around, grabbing for an imaginary mic and rearranging his facial muscles, as a long-ago Israeli producer — Erez, maybe, or Ezer, something like that — had warned him. “You have to be smile when you singing, your face singing too,” Shuey remembered the instructions, the little man with his gray curly hair and smoky voice. “You have to be smile.”

“Ein kamocha,” he jumped again, “ein, ein, ein kamocha, ein,” he pointed to the drop ceiling made yellow by a leak upstairs, and then lifted one leg onto a chair, as if it were a stool at a concert.

“Ve’emunascha baleilos,” he closed his eyes, “balei, ei, eilos.”

The idea was an interesting one, he thought. He’d agreed to present it to the rosh yeshivah — there was no way Rabbi Wasser would give his approval to the Dovi Korman version, but maybe he could explain it differently — and now he was getting into the zone.

You have to be smile.

*****

There was a little kumzitz going on in the laundry room, the whirring washing machines providing sort of a harmony to the singing. “Ki al rachamecha harabbim,” boom, boom, boom.

“We got this,” Dovi Korman was sitting on the dryer, looking out the window. “The sh’eilah is what song to go with. Do we compose a new one? The Modena niggun?”

“So maskim. Actually, Niggun Modena sounds even better,” Sutton said.

“Wait, we’re not sure that Rabbi Portman even spoke to the rosh yeshivah yet, until he gives his okay this is a non-starter,” said Zeldman. “We can’t jump the gun, you know?”

“There’s no way the rosh yeshivah is saying yes to this,” Weldler, who knew things better than other people — he really did, Korman conceded, even though his way of stating opinions like they were halachos was annoying — “not a chance.”

“You should have seen Portman,” Lieber argued, “he was pumped out of his daas, like so excited about this. He’ll make the sale.”

“The Rebbetzin just pulled up,” Korman announced glumly. “Forget it. Even if Rabbi Portman gets him on board, she’ll ruin it.”

“Reb Sholom,” Perensky leaned forward and spoke in an exaggerated voice, “Reb Sholom, I’m not sure what the hava amina is…”

Korman pounded the dryer. “So maskim, she for sure calls him Reb Sholom, no sh’eilah.”

“Reb Sholom, this is a real yeshivah, do you really think it passes to record a song?” Perensky wasn’t giving up on his Rebbetzin imitation.

“But Penina,” he switched to what was supposed to be the rosh yeshivah’s voice, “it’s good for the boys, even if it doesn’t help the yeshivah, that’s also something…. I mean, the Korman bochur, he needs outlets like this, it’s important for him.”

The others laughed, but Dovi Korman interrupted it by banging again, like a gabbai in shul.

“Okay, now Rabbi Portman is headed over there too… it’s time to daven.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 823)