Nechami rummages through the bags they left by the front door. Amid all the brushes, masking tape, plastic sheeting, screws and tools, she finds the roll of lace trim she bought today in Geula. Dainty, delicate lace. And white thumbtacks to affix it to the shelves.

Why does my sister have to live in this dump? she thinks, as she unrolls the lace along the edge of a shelf. Later, they’ll fold the new towels and sheets into perfect rectangles, and arrange them here neatly. Why does a young couple have to begin life in an old, shabby apartment with chipped floor tiles, a faded kitchen designed by someone with very low spatial intelligence, and a closet from the days of the British Mandate?

“You look awfully thoughtful,” says her sister the kallah, walking in on her as she puts the final touches on the shelves. They’re all covered in white paper now, edged in lace, each one finished with a bit of satin ribbon, tied in a bow. “Wow, you really made that closet happy. Look, Ima — Nechami made it all fancy for me.”

“Thank you, Nechami,” says their mother, who’s popped in with Chaya for a visit. “We’re so busy with the mortgage and the wedding… it’s such a big help, the way you’re making everything so beautiful here for the new couple.”

In the living-cum-dining room, they pull a neutral couch cover over the old day bed that will serve as a sofa. It’s soft and cozy, and Chaya sinks into it luxuriously.

“This is where I’ll sit on Friday nights,” she muses, all aglow. “The candles will still be burning, I’ll fill them with plenty of olive oil. The electric lights will be off already, I’ll set the Shabbos clock to turn them off right after the meal. I’ll curl up here under a comforter and watch Moishy at the table there, learning.”

Nechami chokes back laughter. “First of all, Chaya, how is he supposed to learn if you turn the lights out on him? And anyway, do you really think he’ll sit here? Won’t he have a chavrusa and go learn in the shtibel? You’ll sit on the couch by yourself and read a magazine — or more likely, you’ll fall asleep there after a week of hard work.”

That’s so mean, Nechami. Sticking pins in her happy balloon…

“No. Moishy will learn at home Friday night.” Chaya’s balloon is made of tough stuff, impermeable to Nechami’s pins. “That’s the whole beauty of Friday night, to have the husband learning at home. If he really wants, he can bring a chavrusa here. And then I’ll sit in the kitchen or in the other room, and listen.”

Nechami finds this description of life in the future Shpinder home highly amusing. She knows how it will really play out: After the lights go out, Moishy and Chaya will sit and talk about their week. She’ll tell him about her most annoying clients, and he’ll tell her the latest news from the kollel. They’ll also discuss values and middos. It’s very important for a young couple to set their priori—

The lights go out.

This isn’t something out of a kallah’s daydreams. The power has actually gone off. Outside, a stormy wind is blowing, and it’s raining hard. They open the door and check; the lights on the landing are still working. They cross the hall and knock on the neighbors’ door.

A friendly woman in a headscarf greets them. “Are you the kallah who’s coming to live here? How nice! Mazal tov! You should have hatzlachah and a yishuv tov. If you need anything, you can always come to me.”

“The electricity in her apartment just went down,” Nechami explains. “Maybe you have a flashlight you could lend us? So we can check the fuse box?”

• ••

“And I pictured them three years from now, with a couple of cute kids in the middle of their bath, and the electricity keeps going off, because the wiring in that apartment is ancient,” Nechami tells Shua. “And there she is, alone in the dark with two scared, screaming kids in the tub, and no one to help her.”

“I assume that by that time, they’ll have fixed the problem,” Shua says practically. It’s 1 a.m. and he’s walking her home from Chaya’s apartment. “Shpinder’s a very handy fellow. He even has a toolkit already — his brothers and brothers-in-law gave it to him as an engagement gift. Maybe we’ll call him once in a while to fix—”

The wind is so blowing so hard, Nechami can’t hear what her handy new brother-in-law might fix for them. They make their way up the slope of Rechov Yechezkel. She’s huddled  in her coat; Shua is coatless. A winter coat, in her moshavnik husband’s opinion, is not a necessity. A bit of rain never killed anyone. Or wind.

“And what if the electricity isn’t fixed by then?” she shouts, trying to be heard over the wind’s roar.

“Then your dear, capable, and resourceful sister will wrap the two little ones in towels, use her cell phone to light the way to their crib, and put them in there safely with some toys. Then she’ll go to the electric box and switch the circuit breaker back on. And from then on she’ll know not to run the washing machine, the dryer, the electric heater, and the oven all at the same time.”

“You make it all sound so simple, like it’s just a technical matter,” Nechami protests.

“Because it is a simple, technical matter!” he says firmly. “It’s not a disaster if the power goes off. At worst, the kids don’t get a bath that night. They’ll survive it. Why do you look so scared?”

The wind howls, as if answering for her. They turn into a little side street, and the wind goes silent all at once.

“The early years when the kids are small are hard for everybody,” Shua tries to explain. As if she doesn’t know. “People get through it, they toughen up, it all works out.”

“And what if they don’t toughen up?”

“So they stay weak. And that’s okay, too.” For him, everything’s always okay.

“Or they break down.”

“Come on, Nechami, nobody breaks down just from taking care of kids!”

“No? We’ve got a case in point right on our street.”

“Who?” He stops and stares at her. “You?”

She’s stunned at the very suggestion. “Mah pitom, me? I mean those new people, their daughter. The one who came into our house that time and said she was me, remember? She had a mental breakdown, it’s obvious. She wanders around in the street talking nonsense to anyone who’ll listen.” I’m not crying, of course I’m not. The tears aren’t even coming out, they’re going back in now.

“What does that woman’s illness have to do with the electricity in your sister’s apartment?” Shua wants to know. They stop in the middle of the street. A car honks at them as it sends out a spray of rainwater.

“She was alone, with one baby born after another, and they were crying all night, and she was working hard all day, and finally she had a breakdown.”

“What?” Out of character, he contradicts her. His words are like needles. “That’s ridiculous, Nechami!”

She stiffens, insulted.

Shua takes a breath. He speaks again, gently this time. “Who told you that, Nechami?”

Who… well, um… it was clear, wasn’t it? That is… who told her, actually? Ruti herself never gave any real information, only incoherent phrases about particles, light waves, and alternate realities. Her mother had spoken of — of what exactly? “Things got worse with every new baby.” She’d said that, for sure. And they, the parents, hadn’t noticed. The mother had definitely told her that, in that one short conversation. Ruti had been working a full-time job in a daycare center. That was also a clear fact.

Nechami pictures the house in that chareidi project. The constant disorder, the endless piles of laundry, the crying, the struggle against the accumulating mess. The lack of sleep. For sure Ruti must have been sleep-deprived — when does a mother of three little ones get a decent night’s sleep?

“Uh, I’m trying to remember who told me…” she stalls.

Shua is still very much on track. “I happen to know some of the inside story,” he says. “An ex-brother-in-law of hers learns with me in Milkov. Her day-to-day life was stressful, you’re right about that. But that was only the trigger, Nechami. The whole story is much more complicated than you think.”

Nechami waits for lightning, for thunder, for something to strike. But the cold Yerushalmi night is silent. It doesn’t make another sound from that moment until they reach home, chilled to the bone.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 885)