Come, kinderlach. We’re going to the park!” Devoiry surveyed the children one last time. Sendy’s shirt was out again. She quickly tucked him in, then clamped her hand over Ruchie’s.

“How far is the park?” Naftuli wanted to know.

“Right on the next corner. So close! Much closer than the one in Montreal. And there are a lot of cute little boys and girls there for us to play with.” And mommies for me to schmooze with, but she didn’t say that aloud.

She knew a lot of the faces from all the Yamim Tovim they’d spent at her in-laws. Getting the names would only take a few minutes. Soon they’d all be trading recipes and chinuch tips, like in Montreal.

“Come Naftuli, you want to stand on line here at the slide?” Devoiry led her seven-year-old to the crowd of children gathered at the foot of the big yellow ladder. At least two of the other boys looked right around his age.

Natfuli affably found a place in line. But then one of the women rose up from the bench and hurriedly took her son by the hand, jerking him back and waving Naftuli to the front. She whispered something into her little boy’s ear. “The Ruv…let him go first…”

Devoiry heard. She blushed but pretended not to notice. “Hurray for Naftuli!” she cheered instead as he headed down. “Go back, tzaddik, do it again! Mommy will be waiting for you on the bench.” Maybe if she wasn’t standing there, the kids would just be kids.

Somehow an empty bench seemed to magically materialize as she approached. She kept her shoulders straight and smiled fixed, patted the spot next to her until Ruchie sat down, and pulled out the bags of sliced apples from under the stroller. At least her Sendy couldn’t taste the unease seeping through her every crevice. He munched on his apples instead, slowly venturing toward the seesaw.

It happened almost before she could notice. Sendy had knocked down a fragile pigtailed girl and taken her place on the seesaw. The girl lay silently on the ground for a half-second, then started crying.

A boy in a sweater the same shade of teal as the little girl’s bore down on Sendy. “Don’t touch my sister!” he warned. Sendy shrugged. The boy countered with a potch. Devoiry sprang off the bench. “Sendy! We need to wait for our turn! And we can’t hurt little kinderlach!” She maneuvered him off the seesaw and put her arm around his shoulder. “Come, let’s say sorry to the little girl.”

The victim was safe on her mother’s lap now, sniffling.

“Go ahead, Sendy,” Devoiry urged. “Say I’m sorry.”

The mother’s eyes darted nervously. “You don’t have to make him apologize,” she said. “We’ll make sure he gets a turn, don’t worry. Chayala doesn’t understand yet, but I’ll explain it to her.”

“No, no,” Devoiry said. “Of course he has to apologize! He has to wait his turn, just like everyone else! Oh, and by the way, his name is Sendy. He’s five years old, he’s really a very friendly boy…he looks like he might be the same age as your son. And I’m Devoiry, Devoiry Spira.”

“Yes,” the woman said. Of course they knew her name. How dumb could she be? How awkward did this have to be? “Oy, I didn’t realize how late it was. Come kinderlach, let’s go, we need to go home now!”

***

The children were sleeping, the kitchen sparkling, and Pinchas ensconced in his study. Devoiry sank into a kitchen chair and punched Chani’s number into the phone.

“Hi Chan, how are you?”

“Devoiry! How are you? We’re all missing our favorite sister!”

“I’m fine, getting things together here.”

“Please, I’m sure you were together three hours after you walked into the house. So what’s going on with the kids? Are they settling in?”

“Naftuli seems happy, the rebbi’s happy with him. Sendy is Sendy, you know him. And Ruchie’s staying home with me and the baby for now. It’s an adjustment, neither of us is used to this stay-at-home mother thing.”

“I hear.” There was water running and metal clinking. Chani must be washing dishes.

“Listen Chani, I’m looking for a new cake recipe for Shabbos, something with coffee and nuts, you know how Pinchas likes nuts. Any ideas?”

“Hmm, let me think…nuts, nuts. What about the pecan cinnamon ring from Dina Katzberg? You know, the one I made for the last melaveh malka?”

At the last melavah malka Devoiry had been way too busy to make a cake. She was the only one who knew how to assemble the centerpieces. Plus she had to greet all the participants in the panel discussion, and run the raffle. Who would have imagined her sitting on a quiet Tuesday night in her kitchen, with nowhere to go and nothing to do, desperately looking for complicated recipes to fill her nights until a long-off Shabbos?

“Sounds good, can you read me the recipe?”

“Sure. One second, I have a click. Oy, it’s Raizy, she’s been trying to catch me all day, we’re supposed to be arranging the end-of-the-year presents for the rebbeim. I’ll call you back later, okay? Anyway I’m sure you’ll have a bunch of new friends by the end of the week. You probably won’t need any recipes from your little sister by then. Speak to you.”

Devoiry put down her pen and the waiting index card. The blank faces of the women at the park swam up again in her mind’s eye. The empty bench. The almost tangible do-not-touch sign around her children.

That’s what she was, untouchable.

***

“I hope it’s okay that I’m stopping by, rebbetzin.” Luzer Brandwein shifted to the other foot, his hands deep inside his pockets. “I was just passing by and I wanted to check in with you, see how things are going.”

Devoiry scooped up Ruchie, hoping to stop the little girl’s kvetching before it turned into full-blown chazzanus. “Thank you so much for asking. The accommodations are beautiful, really special. I appreciate how you thought of all the details. Even the milk in the fridge…and the toys…and Pinchas seems so happy in the beis din.”

Luzer smiled, a wide, genuine smile. “Pinchas? Pinchas was born for this. For bigger things, even. We saw it in him back when he was little.”

Devoiry wasn’t sure what to say. The pause stretched on, uncomfortably long.

“Okay then.” Luzer shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m happy to hear that everything’s working out with the apartment. Just one thing, rebbetzin, while I’m here. I was thinking, instead of you standing outside schil with the children at the end of davening, I was thinking, I’m happy to send over my Tzirel to babysit. This way you can go inside and daven properly. A real treat, no? The Ruv’s schnir shouldn’t have to be chasing little ones outside, we all know the tefillos from the veiber schil go straight up. Everyone still remembers the way Rebbetzin Sur’ka davened…”

Ruchie was kvetching again. Devoiry rubbed her shoulder. The kvetch became a wail.

“So nine o’clock Shabbos morning, yes? I’ll make sure my Tzirel is here.”

And you’ll collect a report from the vieber schil right after davening, and deliver it straight to my father-in-law, won’t you? Just like you collected reports the last two weeks from the ladies standing outside schil, staring at me but never meeting my eye. Reports of the stumbling, bumbling schnir who still doesn’t know how to be a rebbetzin. The out-of-towner who doesn’t know where she belongs. The lonely, lonely girl who has no siblings, no job, no purpose — and not even one friend.

Devoiry shut the door firmly, put Ruchie down on the couch, and pressed her eyes into her sleeve. The wetness spread down, staining the fabric with her sadness. Ruchie kept crying.

***

Shopping was shopping, no matter where you lived. The entire store in Montreal could probably fit into one aisle here, but in a way everything else was pretty much the same. You could almost predict what kind of personalities would be running the place. A macher who couldn’t sit, a quiet doer who sighed if you asked him any question requiring more than a two-word answer, a guy who talked on his phone so much that you wondered if he ever worked at all.

Devoiry dropped another bag of sugar into her shopping cart and started the trek to the checkout counter. She managed to garner a nod from one woman — Gitty Saltz, if she remembered correctly — and a smile and quick “how are you” from an older woman, Mrs. Taub, she was pretty sure.

“So I was talking with the new dayan,” she heard a male voice on the other side of the aisle. “Brilliant, for sure. Sharp like you can’t believe. But there’s this thing with him, Yankel. You know what I mean?”

Devoiry stopped.

“Yeah Chaim, don’t start with me. I was in his class growing up. I know him a lot longer than you do. The Ilui, that’s what we called him.”

“Ha! He is an ilui, that’s for sure. He knows all the poskim, all the acharonim, everything by heart. But sometimes people with all those brains — they’re missing a little heart, you know, Yankel?”

“You’re saying good, Chaim. I hear you. You have to hear what happened once when we were in sixth grade…” The voices traveled down the aisle, toward the freezer. Devoiry considered heading back to hear more. It would look too strange, though. She headed toward the checkout instead.

Did people really think that way of her husband? She knew him as a prince, a man of sterling character and middos. Was he really so cerebral that he lacked heart? She buried the thought deep underneath the piles of potatoes and onions and cereal boxes. Something to think about later, when the house was quiet once again and she faced the four walls of her own isolation.

***

“Can I ask you a question, Devoiry?”

“Sure,” Devoiry continued spooning vegetable soup into Ruchie’s mouth.

“When you put away a milchig soup in the freezer, how do you know it’s milchig?”

What a strange question. When had Pinchas ever gotten involved in her kitchen?

“Well,” she said, “I label the containers. I think most people do.”

“I hear.” Pinchas looked disapproving.

“What happened?”

“We had this sheilah. A woman pulled a small container of soup out of the freezer and added it to the pot of chicken soup right before Shabbos. Right after she bentsched licht, she realized that it wasn’t chicken soup she’d added — it was some sort of leek and butter soup. Tell me, is it normal to make these kinds of mistakes?”

“People are busy on Erev Shabbos, Pinchas. They don’t always check all the details.”

Pinchas clucked.

Oy. Poor people. “Oy, imagine, they lost their soup. And they messed up their pot, too. You should have invited them over for the meal.”

“Please. He was asking a sheilah, he wasn’t asking for an invitation. And you know we eat at my father on Friday nights.”

Devoiry turned her attention back to Ruchie’s open mouth and the soup dripping onto the high chair tray.

Sometimes people with all those brains — they’re missing a little heart, you know.

***

“Hello, is this Mrs. Spira?”

“Yes, who is this please?”

The voice was very young. Very tentative. “My name is Malky Fischman, I live here in the Kiryeh. I’m working on the school melaveh malka.”

“That’s so nice! And please call me Devoiry.”

“Okay, thanks. Umm…so we were wondering, do you think you’d be able to help us out with something?”

Finally, it was happening. The Kiryeh was starting to see her as an actual human being with ideas and initiative and personality, someone who could contribute instead of just standing there like a mute figurehead.

“Sure, I’m happy to help!” Devoiry said. “Just tell me what you need. When I lived in Montreal and we did functions, I used to help out with the centerpieces a lot, I did a few really nice ones. I’m also pretty good at coming up with ideas for entertainment, I have a file of different programs that we ran over the years.”

“Ah, so, well, that’s really….umm.” Malky Fischman apparently hadn’t expected this. “So it’s more like, well, the Rebbetzin always used to give a nice talk at the melaveh malka, something inspirational for the women, chizzuk, you know? About the koiach hatefillah, or about being ready for Shabbos on time, that type of thing. We were wondering if you could do something like that for us. Our theme is ‘ilan ilan’, we’re doing all these different decorations with roots and branches, so maybe you could talk about chinuch habanim, something like that.”

Devoiry wondered why she was blushing here in her kitchen, when there was no way Malky Fischman could see her.

“That’s — all you wanted?”

Malky seemed a little taken aback. “Is it okay? I mean, the Rebbetzin always used to come, it was a big kavod for us…”

“No, for sure, it’s okay, I mean…fine, no problem. Let me just write down the date and time, okay?”

Devoiry stared at the phone, then started dialing Chani. Her sister had to hear about this one. At the last minute, though, she hung up. Chani was probably schmoozing with Raizy, giggling as she brainstormed about their next joint project. She wasn’t on some lonely pedestal, too holy to touch or be touched by human company.

***

Eight years of marriage and her own natural intuition had honed Devoiry’s skill for reading Pinchas’s feelings, even though his aristocratic face rarely gave a hint of the emotions inside. Tonight she could tell he was agitated — something about the way he tapped on the table while she ladled out his soup. But she didn’t say anything until he’d eaten most of his chicken.

“How was your day?”

“Busy. Tell me, Devoiry,” he put the fork down forcefully. “What kind of woman doesn’t understand the importance of a man davening with a minyan?”

Devoiry looked up. “What? Are you talking about one of the ladies here in the Kiryeh?”

“Yes, I am.” He pushed the plate away. “Today I got the strangest sheilah. A man here, a very fine young man, asks me if he has to catch leining on Mondays and Thursdays if he already davened Shacharis b’yechidus. So I figure his wife is in the hospital, or in the kimputeren heim, and he can’t leave the children alone in the mornings, so he has to daven at home. But no, that’s not the story. Turns out his wife is home for two weeks already, after a whole week at her mother, and still she needs him around every morning to deal with the children. What kind of woman can’t pull herself out of bed three weeks after a baby so her husband can daven like a mentsch?”

Devoiry swallowed. She remembered those first few days after she’d come home with baby Ruchie. Naftuli and Sendy had been so little, so needy, Pinchas so clueless. Her sisters were sending over suppers, of course, but everyone assumed that Devoiry the supreme coper would just naturally add another baby to her long list of achievements. She had thought so too, until the third morning in, when the baby wouldn’t stop crying long enough for her to spoon Sendy’s cereal into his mouth, Pinchas walked through the door expecting his coffee, and Naftuli started vomiting. The tears had almost leaked out, but she had forced them back in and pushed through the day. The next morning, as the sun stole its way into her room and the baby started stirring, the cold terror of actually waking up and doing it all over again had left her clammy, even underneath the down comforter.

What kind of woman doesn’t want her husband davening with a minyan? A woman who can’t bear another day of giving, giving, giving when no one is replenishing her own depleted resources, that’s who.

But Pinchas wouldn’t know that. He couldn’t know that.

“What did you tell him?” She was scared to hear his answer. Nothing in his upbringing, nothing in their marriage, nothing in his character had softened him enough to understand the misery behind the question.

“What should I say? It’s not acceptable.”

“I hear.” The chicken didn’t look appetizing anymore, even with its perfect topping of sautéed onions and mushrooms. “Anything else? Maybe some more farfel?”

Devoiry attacked the dishes with fury that night. Pinchas might be brilliant, he might know halachah, but he was going to hurt people. She knew better. Whoever this woman was, she needed help. And she didn’t need a schmuess about the koiach hatefillah. She needed a warm meal, an afternoon nap, and the reassurance that she was normal.

Now who could it be?

It took just a few minutes for her to find the pile of sheimos, with the last few weeks’ “Bachatzros” newsletters, and to sift through the mazel tov sections. Not Chava Finkelman, this was her first and the mystery man had mentioned his wife needing help with “the other children.” Not Idy Rechnitzer, she was still at her mother’s house recuperating. Rochel Leah Spitz? No, didn’t make sense, she had three teenage girls who ran the house and probably got the kids out in the mornings.

Rivky Maryles. It had to be her. Devoiry tried to picture Rivky, she was one of the regulars at the park. Short, freckled, a bit anxious. She lived around the corner, in one of the newer buildings. Devoiry seemed to remember three little ones crowded around her. One package of chicken cutlets would probably be enough for the whole family. She pulled out the frying pan, two onions, and a box of rice. If she got the baby in for a nap tomorrow morning, she should be able to get a cake in and out of the oven before Sendy came home.

***

Devoiry hadn’t felt this fusion of purpose, conviction, and satisfaction since moving to Monsey. She checked that all her foil-wrapped packages and Tupperwares were balanced in the stroller basket and that Sendy’s shirt was tucked in as she rehearsed the best approach. It would be friendly but not pitying. Maybe this is what Reb Luzer had had in mind all these months — finding her role, filling the hole, being there for the women.

The kids waited patiently downstairs while she knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” a little voice asked.

“Spira,” she said.

Half a minute later, she heard slow shuffling on the other side. Then the door opened.

There stood Rivky Maryles, but not the Rivky she remembered from the park. This woman’s face, with its dark purple circles lining empty eyes and freckles garish against pallid cheeks, was the picture of defeat.

“Rivky? Hi, I’m Devoiry, not sure you remember me,” she said carefully.

“Devoiry? Devoiry Spira?” Now the face came to life. Defeat transformed to terror. “I, um, yes, um, is there something I can do for you?”

The tower of pans in Devoiry’s hands felt very heavy. She pretended not to notice the woman’s fear. “I just wanted to wish you mazel tov and to bring over a little supper. I figured now that the baby’s three weeks old, the ladies probably aren’t sending you suppers anymore. Can I put this down on the counter for you? Is that your kitchen over there?”

“No!” Rivky almost screamed. “I mean, thank you! Thank you so much, let me just take those.” She lunged for the pans.

“My pleasure.” Devoiry smiled the fakest smile she’d ever flashed. “Also, I was wondering, we’re on our way to the park, and I was thinking maybe you’d want to send your chevrah along with us? I’d be more than happy to drop them off on our way back home. This way you can just pop the supper in the oven now and lie down until they come home.”

The hazel eyes turned on her, hungry, needy. “You would do that?”

“Sure, you’re mammesh on my way home. Why not?”

“Let me just get everyone together, is that okay with you? Yanky, Miri, Faigy, guess what? A nice lady is taking you to the park now! Everyone go to the bathroom quickly! Mrs. Spira, do they need jackets?”

“It’s Devoiry, please, I’m sure we’re right around the same age. I think jackets would be good. You know what, I’ll wait right outside and you send them out when they’re ready, okay?”

“Yes, for sure. Thank you so much, Mrs. Spira. You can’t imagine…”

“It’s fine, it’s a pleasure. I know how tired you can get after a baby. It’s like you’re swimming through mud. And everyone around you just keeps gliding along and they can’t figure out why you’re not managing, while you can’t understand why they don’t see how hard it is for you.”

The bent shoulders jerked up. Rivky looked directly at Devoiry. Her raised eyebrows asked what she didn’t dare say aloud. You felt that way, too?

Devoiry imagined how she appeared, with her fit-and-flare brown spring coat neatly belted at her waist, floral scarf peeking out under her sweater, trim leather pocketbook over her shoulder. She took the plunge. “It’s like you’re on all alone on your own planet, no? Miles away from everyone else. And when you’re there you can’t imagine ever leaving. But you do, eventually. We all do.”

The rumpled woman stared for another half-second, then drew in her breath.

“Listen Rivky, I’m waiting downstairs for the kids. And I’m coming back tomorrow, we go to the park every day. I don’t want you worrying about supper for the rest of the week. Just rest. It sounds silly, but my personal theory is that sleep solves at least 80 percent of the world’s problems.”

***

It took two days for Rivky to allow her past the door, so Devoiry figured things weren’t so neat inside. Still, she wasn’t prepared for the kitchen.

As tired as she’d felt, Devoiry had never let her oven get that grimy. Or for black spots to collect in the corners of the sink. Or for juice to stay on the counter the whole day.

But this was her job now, to fill the holes. She deposited her pans on the counter, and offered a new variation on her usual words of encouragement. At least the baby was cute, that was a compliment she could extend in complete sincerity. And Rivky was looking a little less pale. She made a mental note to bring some iron pills tomorrow.

“What are your Shabbos plans?” she offered on Thursday. “Can I bring you over a few things tonight? I’m used to cooking and packing up the meals by now, after all those Friday nights at my shver.”

“You’re too good, Mrs. Spira,” Rivky said. “We’re going to my parents in Williamsburg, actually. And next week I’m going to start cooking again. I’m ready to get back into things.”

“That’s amazing,” Devoiry said, even though she wasn’t sure. “But my kids are getting so friendly with your chevrah, I hope it’s okay if we borrow them again next week for our trips to the park. This way you can still take a little time to lie down once you get the supper going.”

“You’re sure?” There was that hunger again.

“Absolutely.”

And maybe the next week, when you’re feeling even better and your baby’s ready for some fresh air, I’ll have someone to schmooze with on the park bench.

***

“Mommy, why aren’t we stopping to get the Maryles kinderlach?”

“Yeah Mommy, I want to play with Yanky!”

“Don’t worry, tattele, the Maryles kinderlach are coming to the park, but this week their mommy is going to bring them.”

Devoiry made her way again to the bench that always magically emptied as she approached. Today would be different, though. Today she would have a friend, someone she understood, someone who’d gotten a glimpse of her own vulnerabilities. She tried not to make it too obvious that she was looking out for a small freckled woman pushing a stroller, and busied herself instead with the baby.

“They’re coming! Here’s Yanky!” came Naftuli’s delighted cry. “Yanky, run to the slide with me!”

Devoiry straightened up and smiled as Rivky approached. She had pulled herself together nicely for a woman who had barely been coping just two weeks earlier, even managing a drop of blush on her cheeks and some proper clothing.

One bench over, Malky Fischman leaned over the stroller to compliment Rivky on her new arrival. The two exchanged a few words, a smile. Then Rivky braked the stroller and sat down next to Malky. She must have felt Devoiry’s eyes on her, must have felt some magnetic pull from the empty spot one bench over, because she met Devoiry’s gaze. But instead of the hazel hunger of two weeks ago, or the open warmth of last week, these eyes were cool and distant. Rivky nodded, gave a half smile, and straightened her shoulders. I don’t need a savior, her stiff back broadcast silently. I’m coping.

She turned to Malky. Soon enough Devoiry heard the two laughing together as she sat there, alone.

***

“Good Shabbos, Devoiry, how are you?” Pinchas’s face was a bit flushed, his tone less measured than usual. “You think you can add an extra three settings to the table?”

“Sure, we have plenty of food. What’s happening?”

“What’s happening is that someone came over to me with a sheilah this morning. His wife messed up. She thought she stuck a kishke into the chulent yesterday, but this morning they realized it smells funny. It wasn’t kishke — it was frozen gefilte fish. He wanted to know what his options were. His whole meal is inside that pot — cholent, kugel, everything. I went through the sugya with him. Basically, they’re in trouble. I remembered what you told me a month or two ago, that these people don’t just need a psak, they need a real solution, too…and I told him we’d be happy to have his family for the meal. Okay with you?”

“Pinchas!” A beam of warmth spread through Devoiry. “That’s amazing. Naftuli, come here, sheifelah,” she called. “Here are three napkins, let’s see you fold them nicely. We’re having guests!”

Devoiry tried to temper her euphoria as she opened the door for the Goldmans. It wasn’t just that she was finally opening up her gilded cage to allow in some company. It was the slow change in Pinchas, the way he’d discerned the human need behind the academic question, the easy graciousness that had never before existed in her stiff, calculated husband.

Nechy Goldman didn’t seem to share her joy, though. The petite woman could barely meet her eye. For some reason, she seemed near tears.

“So,” Devoiry tried, as the meal got underway. “How long are you living here in the Kiryeh?”

“Four years,” Nechy whispered.

“Did you know anyone before you moved?”

Nechy nodded. “Two girls from my high school class, and I also have a cousin. Oy!” she grabbed her little one. “Shimmy, careful! No spilling!”

“It’s okay.” Devoiry tried to sound soothing. “Please, we’re used to it.”

Nechy grabbed a napkin and dabbed furiously at the spreading orange stain. Her husband frowned at her from the other end of the table. “Soichet,” he said. “Assur.”

The little woman dropped the napkin and swallowed deeply. Her hands trembled. Devoiry averted her eyes. “Sendy, tell me about the parshah,” she said in what she hoped was a cheerful voice. If only this meal would end already.

“Shy people,” Pinchas said when the house emptied out.

“I guess.”

“That mommy was so embarrassed,” Sendy said as he took out a box of mentschies.

“Embarrassed?” Devoiry stopped sweeping for a second. It was true. Nechy Goldman would have rather eaten some cold challah and dips than expose her blunder to the Ruv’s son and daughter-in-law.

***

“Oy, rebbetzin, this is really too much! The boys will be thrilled!” Rebbi Hillel was thrilled too, that much Devoiry could see.

“I figured they deserve something special,” she said. “It’s a big accomplishment, finishing the whole alef-beis.”

The rebbi gently lowered the big cardboard box to a side table. He kept his gaze fixed on the elaborate frosted cupcakes with their alef-beis embellishments. “It means a lot to a little boy when his mother shows how excited she is about his learning, you know rebbetzin?”

Devoiry nodded. She’d spent years worrying about her students’ progress, back in her teaching days. She knew all too well.

“There are some parents who just don’t understand how important those ten minutes a day really are.” The rebbi absently picked up one of the cupcakes, then put it back down. “If they would just find ten minutes, their son would be reading perfectly. How much is that to ask already? Ten minutes, and you give your son his future!”

“Reading is the foundation,” Devoiry agreed.

“I have two boys here in the class, what can I tell you? They’re drowning. Drowning, rebbetzin. Sweet boys, good boys, but they’re never going to catch up if this is how things continue. They just need time, attention, some more chazarah.”

The rebbi was young. He probably didn’t realize that his simple prescription wasn’t as simple as it sounded. “Is everything okay there at home?” Devoiry asked.

Rebbi Hillel sighed. “It’s a good question you’re asking, rebbetzin. With the little Saltz boy, I know things are davka not so easy. The mother’s on bed rest, I think. I hear that alef beis might not be the most important thing over there right now. But with Markowitz, I have no idea what’s going on. Everything looks fine to me, and their Shiah is drowning. I call them, I beg them, just ten minutes a day, save your son. Nothing.”

“It must be hard, after everything you put into the boys,” Devoiry said.

“Yes.” He sighed. “Nu, we can’t fix the world. We can only do our best. Thank you again, rebbetzin. The cupcakes will be the highlight of the siyum.”

Devoiry nodded and smiled, and wheeled her stroller out of the school building. Her brain started to whir.

Two floundering preschoolers. Back before the seventh-grade job, she’d taken a few courses in specialized reading intervention. During those two years, she had challenged herself to take on the school’s most troubling cases and get to the root of the problems. Four children had learned how to read under her tutelage. She still had her notes from the course, with her own worksheets and contests. All she had to do was call up Gitty Saltz and Yocheved Markowitz, find out what time she could come over, stock up on some good prizes, and within a few months their sons would be reading perfectly. It was that simple.

Maybe she should stop at the stationery store now, buy some stickers. This way she could start drawing up the charts as soon as she got home. Something stopped her though.

In her mind’s eye, she saw Rivky Maryles sitting on a bench, shoulders stiff, denial in her eyes. Nechy Goldman was crouched next to her, features frozen in terror. Gitty Saltz was cowering behind them, and Yocheved Markowitz was hiding her face in her hands.

She wasn’t Devoiry the friendly savior. She was the too-perfect woman who’d exposed their failings, the woman they must keep at arm’s distance if only to protect their pride.

There was so much she wanted to give the women here, so much she could share. But more than any suppers or meals or tutoring help, what they desired most of all was dignity. No one wanted their facades of functionality stripped away, their secrets and failures acknowledged before their own children.

Devoiry gently closed to the door to her house, transferred the sleeping baby to his crib, and dialed a familiar number. “Rabbi Brandwein?”

“Yes.”

“Hello, this is Spira speaking. How are you?”

“Baruch Hashem, rebbetzin, and you?”

“Baruch Hashem. Listen, I’m wondering. Does the Kiryeh have some sort of program set up for children who need extra help with kriyah?”

“Extra help?”

“So it’s like this. I was talking with Natfuli’s rebbi, and he tells me that there are at least two children in the class who need help with their kriyah. One has a mother on bed rest, the other is a little more of a complicated situation. So I was thinking, do we have something in place where we send older girls over to help these children in the evenings?”

“We don’t, no.”

“Look, back in Montreal, I used to do private kriyah sessions with preschoolers. I’m sure I could help these boys, but it’s a little too sensitive for me to do this personally, you know what I mean? So I was thinking, let’s find a few older girls who are talented and patient and good with kids, and I’ll train them in. I have a lot of material in my files. This is the way I see it working…”

Luzer Brandwein hung up the phone. This woman knew details better than he did. She was a smart one. Maybe too smart, too involved. But something about her program sounded right. He would ask the Ruv’s opinion.

***

“Rabbi Brandwein? It’s Spira again. How are you?”

“Good, rebbetzin, how can I help you?”

“There’s a family I’ve been keeping my eye on. The mother has some health issues. Usually she manages, but I’m getting the sense that things are flaring up now. I’m happy to prepare meals for a week or two, but I can’t have the children see me bringing the food. I know the mother a little from here and there and she’s the type who would want her children to think she’s functioning. I also want to arrange some steady cleaning help for them. You think you can help me out? I have this idea…”

***

“Rabbi Brandwein?”

“Yes rebbetzin, what’s new?”

“I have this idea, I’m wondering what you think. I’m sure you know a few families who have a hard time with the Yom Tov expenses, and I know about a few more from Mechel at the grocery. So I want you to arrange some special coupons for these people, to help them buy chicken and meat and wine. I have a donor in Montreal, an old friend of my father’s. I spoke to him already and he’ll cover it. But we need to make the coupons looks like they’re from the Kiryeh, some special program. Can you make some inquiries, get back to me in two days, and we’ll put together a list? And maybe you’ll find someone who knows graphics? I want these coupons designed nicely. They should look bakovadig.”

“I’d be happy to, rebbetzin.”

***

Luzer Brandwein sat down at his desk. He pulled out his highlighters, his computerized lists, and the big master chart of the Yamim Noraim seating. In just another week, the entire kehillah would stand together for two days of davening. So many names, so many needs, so much pain.

The mizrach vant always stayed the same, but he checked off the names anyway. Guttwein, Taub, Zimmetboim, Weissman, Fried, Borenstein.

The third row. It was ironic, in a way, that Saltz was sitting next to Kaufman. Not that anyone else would know it, but Kaufman’s daughter was doing nissim with the little Saltz boy. Rebbi Hillel had told him about the turnover just a few weeks before. From an absolute failure just two months before — they had even been thinking about having him repeat a grade — the little boy was reading beautifully now. Nissim, mammesh.

He put the three Fischman brothers together in the fifth row. All of them would have meat this Yom Tov — two thanks to the business, and the third thanks the rebbetzin. He’d have dignity, too. She was a smart one, he’d known that from the start.

Markowitz was in his regular seat, but this year he’d asked for a seat for his Mendy, too. Amazing how the children were growing up, becoming mentschen, able to sit in shul for the long davening. Though he had a feeling that Mrs. Markowitz probably needed Mendy out of the house, in her condition. At least they had all the Yom Tov meals taken care of, that was the least they deserved, considering everything on their plates.

He ran through the next row, checking off the names. Each one would come to shul with a smile, keeping their stories hidden between themselves and their machzors.

Upstairs, he knew, a dignified figure with a white kerchief over her sheitel would be davening, part of the group, but slightly apart — separated by a status she hadn’t chosen, and alone as someone who holds too many secrets always must be. Only he and the Ruv would know how much she’d lightened all those burdens. It was a good thing he’d pushed the shidduch all those years ago. He’d always known she was the right one for The Ilui.

***

The waiting room to Pinchas’s study seemed very full tonight. It was probably time to replenish the refreshments. Devoiry shifted the plate of rugelach onto the tray with the drinks and put her free hand on the sliding door.

“We always knew about his brains,” she heard someone saying. Guiltily, she pulled her hand back and stopped to listen. “We were calling him The Ilui since he was six, seven years old, remember?”

“Sure I remember those days! Who could have imagined how right we were? Such a pike’ach, such intuition…the way he manages to hear all the things you don’t say?”

An appreciative silence.

“Listen, I’ve spoken to a lot of poskim and dayanim in my life. Let me tell you, it’s one thing to know halachah, it’s another to understand the story behind the story, the way Reb Pinchas does. You don’t find it by everyone.”

“It must run in the family, something in the genes. Like his mother the Rebbetzin. No one had a heart like she did. The way she sensed what people needed, the way she davened for us — who can forget?”

“You’re right, it probably comes from his mother. That kind of heart you don’t just develop overnight.”

Devoiry smiled to herself. She tapped gently on the door, slid it open, and deposited the tray on the table. A gentle shower of confectioner’s sugar caught the light of the chandelier, winking and blinking as it scattered its sweet dust over the waiting pink napkins.

(Originally featured in Calligraphy Pesach 5776)