Kroizer was still using the same couch he’d gotten after his wedding — his wife must have sewn the damask cover that kept it pristine, though Benny wondered if they ever removed the cover to enjoy the unsullied upholstery beneath. And more than once during his visits to pay the rent, Benny had heard Kroizer sing the praises of the Amcor fridge that had chugged away faithfully for more than 30 years.

But appearances could be deceiving. Beneath the penny-pinching stereotype was a clever businessman who’d saved and borrowed enough to buy two apartments, then a third, for extra income, as Yerushalayim slowly expanded its borders after the Six Day War.

Unlike his neighbors, Kroizer had managed to buy apartments for all his children without any pre-wedding trips to America. He’d had money coming in for years. Two of his sons followed his example, he had proudly told Benny, and bought investment apartments in Haifa. That was the way to do it — buy property before a neighborhood becomes chareidi, then raise the rent when demand swells.

Not that you could tell from the way he lived, Benny thought as he shifted on the hard chair and forced himself to swallow another sip of the violently green soda.

“So, Reb Binyumen.” Kroizer had finished counting. He put the envelope in his pocket and poured himself a cup of Crystal. “Ah, gut.” He drained the cup. “So how many years is it now that you’re renting my dirah?”

Benny looked quizzically at Kroizer. What was this all about? “Five years,” he said.

“And two months,” Kroizer added. “This is already your sixth year. And nu, what can I tell you, it’s been a while that I kept the rent steady. Three whole years without a raise. But the market is changing, prices are going up. I’m sure you understand.”

Benny bit his lip. He wasn’t quite sure of their budget — Tziporah handled these things — but he thought they could probably handle an increase. He was making a small salary now, and while the money from Ner Olam wasn’t a lot, Tziporah was pretty thrifty, and she always made sure to put away a little every month.

Kroizer leaned back into his chair. Benny thought he could hear it groan. “So, they’re telling me that a dirah like mine in Ramat Eshkol, three bedrooms, a succah porch — not all the apartments there have succah porches, you know the neighborhood was originally built for chilonim, yah?”

Benny nodded guardedly.

“So a dirah like mine, people are telling me it’s like owning a bank. Or maybe an oil field. They say I shouldn’t be asking you less than 11,000 shekel.”

Benny jerked to attention, chin up, eyes wide. Eleven thousand! That was insane!

Kroizer must have noticed the panic in his eyes. “But nu, Reb Binyumen, you’re a good tenant for years already,” he said, his voice smooth as chocolate spread on day-old Berman sliced bread. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I told the Rebbetzin, Binyumen Muller, such a tayereh yungerman, never bothers us about the heat or the pipes or the oven. For you, I’m going to keep the rent at 10,000 shekel.”

“But, but,” Benny spluttered, “Harav Kroizer, selichah, but that’s a huge increase!” Where were the Hebrew words he needed? He felt so handicapped. “We’ve been paying 6,500 for the last three years. How can you raise it so much so fast?”

Kroizer pursed his lips and shrugged his zebra-striped shoulders with magnificent nonchalance.

“For sure you know about the inflation, it’s all over the world. So 6,500 shekel this year is not like 6,500 shekel last year. Especially with that Avigdor Lieberman, the rasha, making everything so expensive. Did you try buying plastic cups lately? Meshigge!

“Also there was corona, don’t forget,” Kroizer went on. “For two years everything was frozen. So now we have to catch up for those two years when the prices didn’t move. And my daughter’s making her first chasunah, I want to help out the new couple a little, I’m sure you understand.”

“But —” Benny pressed his legs against the chair. “Ten thousand? My wife works hard, but that’s almost her entire salary.”

For the first time that evening, Kroizer looked uncomfortable. “Talk to your neighbors,” he said, tapping the table to some random  rhythm. “You’ll see, everyone is dealing with this now. I met this agent at the mikveh, a nice fellow from London, or maybe Manchester? And he said he can get me a young couple that will rent the apartment for 11,000, maybe even a bit more.”

“You would do that? Kick out a family with three little kids, after five years of never missing a payment? I mean, five years and two months.” Benny knew his face was getting red — he tasted the heat in his mouth.

“Nu, enough.” Kroizer stood up. “If it’s too much, you’ll talk to de tatte and de mamme in Amerike. They’re always happy to help out, no?”

Two weeks after their wedding, when most of their suitcases had already been packed for the move to Israel, Benny and Tziporah had driven out to Lawrence to say goodbye to Dad. Dad had put out drinks and candy for them — Benny still remembered picking out the green Laffy Taffies — and tried to make small talk. Then, before the big goodbye, he suddenly got serious.

“Benny, the second you want to drop this kollel idea and train for a real job, I’m happy to pay for it,” he said. “After all these years investing in buildings, I want to invest in my kids. A college degree, a real estate course — give me a call and you’ll have the money in your bank account.”

The implication had been clear then, and it was even clearer now. No way was Benny’s tatte in Amerike going to subsidize his years in kollel.

Benny stood up and jammed his plastic-covered chair into its decades-old spot at Kroizer’s table. Oddly, the thought struck him that Kroizer had precisely six chairs for a family of nine. Where had the unlucky three kids sat all those Shabbosim?

“Good night,” he said curtly.

Kroizer shook Benny’s limp fingers with vigor. “Good night, Reb Binyumen. I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to come up with the money, but if you think you can find a better arrangement for your budget somewhere else, this agent says he’ll get me a different tenant. Should we give it until Elul? I want to be yashrusdig with you. Take two full months to think about it, and we won’t raise the rent until Elul. Sounds good, no?”

Benny jerked his head and left.

The electric bike seemed to sense his taut nerves. It zipped through the sultry night, speeding down from Geula to Ramat Eshkol, taking the turns with a pleasing whine. Some kid’s riding toy was hogging Benny’s parking spot, and he kicked it away, hard. The toy spun wildly across the alley before coming to a stop. It lay askew, staring at him accusingly. He had probably dented it and broken some little kid’s heart. Too bad.

Benny shoved his bike into its usual spot near his building and locked it in place. Tziporah was waiting for him with a hot supper, and he had to pretend everything was fine.

Ten thousand shekel. Ten thousand shekel for a rundown apartment with battered cabinets and a leaky faucet and windows that let in the wind and wet during the dark winter months. Ten thousand shekel that he didn’t have and had no way of getting, not with Tziporah’s hard-earned monthly salary and his pittance from Ner Olam and the rental unit in Houston that just about covered the 6,500-shekel sum they’d been paying the last three years.

Benny stumbled toward the entrance. A tall, thin guy approached.

“So what’s pshat in Reb Shimon?” He was half-talking, half-singing to himself. “So pshat is” — the guy almost walked straight into Benny. “Oy, anshuldigs,” he said. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” Benny said.

That had to be Yaakov Lederberg, the new neighbor, talking the sugya over to himself as he walked through Ramat Eshkol. Martin Klein’s son-in-law probably thought he was living with mesirus nefesh. What did he know of sacrifice, of living on a budget, of saving money for heat in the winter or for new Shabbos shoes for your kids?

Ten thousand shekel. How would they do it?

He dragged himself up the three flights to the apartment.

“Hi, Tzip, sorry I’m late,” he said. “Kroizer held me up. Loves to talk.”

“No problem,” Tziporah said. “Here, I kept supper warm in the oven. I hope it’s okay that I ate already — I have a lot of work tonight, Maury is getting nervous about the Nathan audit.”

“No problem.” Benny was relieved to eat alone. He didn’t think he could keep up a cheerful act for Tziporah right now.

He sat at the table and stared at the plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. From the open window, he heard a group of girls down on the street chatting in a mixture of Hebrew and English.

He tried to remember why he was here. He could have been like his friends who went back to America after a year or two of newlywed lunching-and-learning. Now those guys were running businesses, flipping houses, working as accountants or lawyers.

He could have been like Dave — buying up properties, building his wife a dream home, hosting fundraisers and visiting Israel for a boost of spirituality now and then.

Benny picked up his plate and took the two steps to the garbage can. He tipped it over and scraped his uneaten supper inside.

He was here because he saw a future for himself in the yeshivah. Because he had a shared language and background that allowed him to connect to the bochurim at Ner Olam. Because he had something authentic and valuable to offer these struggling guys.

Ten thousand shekel. He had to make it work.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 931)