“Take me to gan,” Avital demands, starting to pull off her hat.

“Yes, your royal highness.” Dudi bows. “Bye, Yaffa’le, have a good day.”

All the way to the day care center, Gedalya’s harangues, going years back, resound in his head. You’re destroying Abba, you’re slowly killing Ima. You’re hurting the whole family. Do you really think you can live a happy life like this? Your head is full of fantasies. Look at Yosef Dektuch and Menny Bergsofer — they thought they could find happiness outside, and look where it got them. They both ended up lonely and miserable. Dektuch ended up in the psych ward. If you leave the fold, you’re going to fail at everything you do.

“Abba!” Avital has her list of demands. She has to be entertained on the way to gan. She wants a song. She wants a story.

“Once, there was a bad boy,” he tells her. His eyes are on the striped crosswalk. Streams of children flow across, giving him time to think.

“What bad things did he do?” his little girl asks in her sweet baby talk.

“Everybody was always mad at him, and talking to him not nicely.”

“Nu-nu-nu.”

“Right. They went nu-nu-nu at him. Finally he grew up and got married. And they had a cute little baby girl.”

“What?”

A home like that doesn’t last, Gedalya warned him when he heard about the shidduch with Yaffa’le. You’re just trying to escape, that’s all, and soon enough you’ll realize what a mistake you made.

The mass of children finally finishes crossing, and a little smile appears on Dudi’s face, because even when they were on the verge of breaking up, even when he and Yaffa’le discovered some hard realities, there was one thing that convinced him to hold on and not let go — to invest in more counseling, to put in more effort and make it work. It was his determination not to give his family the satisfaction of saying “We told you so.” He wouldn’t have them gossiping about him and Yaffa’le in his parents’ home, in Abba’s shtibel. That was more than he could tolerate.

And that “We told you so,” which they never got to say, turned into a great gift — their marriage, their home.

• ••

Sari Bernfeld tries asking Abba first. These strange words in the paper — what do they mean? On his way out to Shacharis, Shua gives a quick glance.

“I don’t know,” he says, stretching the truth for the sake of shalom. “That article is too complicated for me.”

With a child’s sure instinct, Sari notes his embarrassment and continues leafing idly through the paper, jumping from reports on Iranian missile launchers to classified ads for apartment rentals, still mulling over what she read earlier.

At seven thirty, Nechami gets up, washes negel vasser, and hurries to get Yehudit and Yossi dressed.

“Ima,” Sari calls out from the kitchen, “what does this mean?”

“Shh,” Nechami says urgently, her hands flying to her ears. “First of all, if you were up at seven, why aren’t you dressed yet? And second, we don’t shout across the house. And third, where did you learn that word?”

“It’s right here in the paper,” Sari says, waving the offending page. “In this editorial, about the government letting…”

“Those words are just gibberish,” Nechami says decisively. “There aren’t any such words, even in English.” She turns around to face the counter, where Shua laid out the sandwiches he made for the whole family.

“So they don’t mean anything?”

“That’s right. It must be what they call a typo — it means they typed a word wrong, they made a mistake.”

“But doesn’t Uncle Gedalya check for mistakes?” the little darling persists.

“No. Uncle Gedalya only checks to make sure there’s nothing inappropriate in the paper.” Now Nechami feels her cheeks growing red, feels the heat spreading. Please, Hashem, tell me this didn’t happen on Gedalya’s watch. He doesn’t deserve this. “Like, if there’s something in a story that’s not good chinuch, or pictures that aren’t refined enough for good Yidden to look at. But he doesn’t correct typos. That’s not his job.”

“Oh… okay.” Satisfied at last, Sari moves on. “Abba said to tell you we’re out of eggs. He’ll bring some on the way home from davening. So he gave you a cheese sandwich instead.”

“Thank you, Sari.” She keeps her gaze focused on the counter, not sure if the deep blush has left her face yet. Between the crumbs and the stray drops of ketchup, her old friend the coffee-mug circle beams at her. She takes out a disposable wipe, slowly erases the circle, gathers up the crumbs and whisks them into the trash. Tomorrow the circle will be back. She’ll scrub it away again… and smile.

• ••

Over at the Silvers’ house, everything was simpler. Chaya got up that morning with stars in her eyes and an involuntary smile spreading from ear to ear.

“What’s so funny there in the paper?” her mother asked.

“I dunno,” Chaya replied dreamily. “I’m not really reading it.”

“Everything’s fine, Leah,” Abba called from the next room. “We can already buy the gold watch.”

Chaya’s face clouded over for a moment. “Why waste money on a gold watch?” she said. “No chassan ever wears it anyway, once the sheva brachos are over.”

“It’s no waste to buy a gold watch for a cream-of-the-crop chassan,” her father answered.

“Don’t talk about it,” Chaya pleaded. “You promised not to pressure me. You said you’d give me a week to think it over between the first meeting and the second.”

She started preparing her bag for school, but she could hardly remember what lessons they were having that day. Meanwhile she thought… and smiled… and thought….

In their house, nobody read the editorial in the paper that morning.

• ••

Moriah was laughing with glee. “I sent them an email from a fake address, saying I was a well-known mechanech with many years of experience, and I was shocked to see how loose their standards had become. I threw in a lot of preaching, and then I signed off ‘Hoping for genuine change and some deep, extensive soul-searching.’ ”

“That’s not nice, Moriah. You know it’s my brother-in-law,” Yaffa’le reproached her friend.

“Oh, boy, do I know it. He’s the one who spends all day blocking everything we do, with his ‘G. Silver’ scrawled in red pen. This ad is inappropriate —G. Silver. Please change the headline —G. Silver. We may not use pesukim or other Torah sources for secular purposes —G. Silver. And then they copy a whole paragraph from a secular paper, and G. Silver lets it through with no comment. And you want me not to laugh?”

“It’s not funny!” Yaffa’le had laughed too, earlier that morning, but suddenly she found herself sticking up staunchly for her brother-in-law. She thought of her sister-in-law Shifra, petite and gentle. Even when she’d stopped allowing her children to come over, she’d done it nicely. There were no sharp words, no rebuke. She always tried to maintain good feelings. And yesterday she’d even hosted Avital at her house.

She didn’t deserve this.

• ••

In the CEO’s office, the chiefs were waiting for him — the elderly CEO, no longer active but still retaining the honorary title; his son, the deputy CEO; and Morgen, the production manager. A pile of paper lay on the desk, faxes and printouts of emails. The heading on one of them spoke loud and clear: “Time to find a new rabbinic reviewer.”

“But it’s not what you think.” Gedalya was pale and shaky, but insistent. “I corrected that paragraph, I’m absolutely sure that I marked it up. I realized that they’d copied something from an outside source, I drew a red arrow pointing to it, and I wrote, ‘Take out this phrase.’ ”

“Leinitz, the page designer, says she received no such instruction.”

“I sent it. And I received confirmation that it was sent.” Gedalya felt cornered by his accusers, and he hated the feeling.

“So this is what happened,” Morgen said. “I tracked the process. The fax went through, but it was a little blurry — like faxes tend to be. Your arrow was barely visible, and in the margin there was no comment to be seen. The designer didn’t understand what the arrow meant, and she couldn’t call you to ask about it because it was already 1 a.m.”

“So you’re going to follow your readers’ advice and fire your rabbinic reviewer?” He hadn’t meant it to sound so bitter.

“Chalilah,” said the deputy CEO. “Chas v’chalilah. Rav Silver, you know how much we value your fine work and dedication. That’s why you have authority over all the editors. We’re not talking about firing you at all.”

The CEO nodded. His old fingers drummed on the table.

“We’re only making some changes to your work conditions. With all due respect and understanding, we can’t continue having you work with pen and paper. And the fax machine is a disaster. Honestly, it’s been an issue for quite some time already. It’s always been a big headache for the graphic artists and the secretaries, and the editors have been complaining for years, but out of respect for your principles, we all accommodated you. This morning was the breaking point, as far as we’re concerned. We consulted Rav Levi from the Beis Din L’shemiras HaDas, and he agreed with us.”

Gedalya searched the faces. They were all firm, determined.

“We’re willing to cover the cost of the initial purchase, and whatever training you need,” said Morgen, trying to smooth ruffled feathers.

“Purchase of what?” Gedalya already knew. He was just stalling.

“Of a computer.”

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 863)