“Every aliyah you’ve ever gotten was under the wrong name,” Hillel says thoughtfully

“IT could have been so much worse,” Hillel says helpfully as he speeds through a yellow light into an intersection.

He gets a honk from someone attempting to turn left and waves jauntily out his window. “You could have discovered that your last name was Johnson or Lombardi or something really questionable. Moish Garfinkel is as Jewish as it gets.”

“Right,” Gabe says dryly. “Also, the photographs at my bris might have tipped me off.” It hadn’t been much of a simchah, with Ima that sick, but there are a few pictures of Gabe with Rivi and Abba and his sandek. The rav of our shul in Bearwood, Abba had offered once. Gabe had tried hunting him down last Friday without any luck. Unsurprising. He’d be over 100 by now.

They’ll get more answers in Bearwood. Hopefully. A three-hour round trip is a lot to ask of Hillel on a Sunday afternoon, though he’d needed no convincing.

“Every aliyah you’ve ever gotten was under the wrong name,” Hillel says thoughtfully. “Have you ever been an eid for a wedding?”

“Never.” A perk of being antisocial. “I’ve been the only Kohein in shul, though,” he admits guiltily.

“That’s right.” Hillel perks up. “You might not be a Kohein. Ahuva’s been asking about that.”

“Why does your wife care if I’m a Kohein?” She’d asked on Friday night, too, and Gabe had just shrugged. Abba’s yearbook had indicated that Avigdor was a Kohein and had said nothing about Moish, but that’s hardly conclusive.

“Well—”