Suddenly, Tovi is laughing, and their heads turn toward her.

“I just thought of another ending for that joke about the scissors,” she says between convulsive giggles. “You remember, the doctor realized he left his surgical scissors inside the patient’s stomach, and he wanted to open him up again?”

Gedalya can’t quite follow the convoluted plot twist his daughter is weaving to replace the story’s original punchline (“So I’ll pay you the price of the scissors”). Really Gedalya would like to talk with his daughter, who will become bas mitzvah this summer, who is about to undergo a long and fateful surgical procedure. He’d like to have a deep, spiritual conversation with her about the meaning of life, about tefillah, about emunah. He’d like to tell her the shtikel Sfas Emes he learned on Shabbos, on the words b’yadcha afkid ruchi. To discuss things of import with her, and not just spend this whole journey in hollow laughter.

Tovi rummages in her bag and pulls out a small, decorated diary. “My friend Batya gave me this,” she says. “Oh, of course, Dudi, you know her! She’s Yaffa’le’s niece, right? So how does that joke about the violin go? I’d better write it down — I promised her I’d write down everything.”

“Doctor, will I be able to play the violin after this procedure?” Dudi puts on a raspy voice, playing the part of an elderly patient.

“Certainly,” Tovi answers, remembering the surgeon’s line.

“That’s wonderful,” says the patient. “I never could before!”

Gedalya quietly sings a little bim-bom tune to himself, trying to dispel his discomfort. He takes out the Gemara he put in his carry-on and places it on his tray table.

“So the plumber said, ‘Even when I was a surgeon I never made so much money,’ ” Dudi drawls.

Through the plane’s narrow windows, the first light of dawn is peeking over the horizon, and Tovi’s eyes are slowly closing. She hasn’t slept all night. Her head drops to the side, leaning on the window, and her breathing is slow and relaxed. There’s a little smile on her face.

“She’s asleep,” Dudi says to his brother.

“Good.” Gedalya inclines his head.

These seats are too close together. Painfully close. He can see Dudi’s light blue polo shirt, the logo embroidered on it, the short, clipped hairs on his jawline. The minhag in their father’s home is never to let a blade touch those hairs.

“I guess I’m not going to be hearing the word ‘thanks’ from you,” Dudi says, stretching as far as he can in the cramped seat.

“Thank you,” Gedalya says stiffly.

And since the seats are so close together, Dudi can see every hair in his brother’s long beard, every scratch in his plastic-framed glasses, every miniscule bead of sweat on his forehead.

“I wanted to talk with her… a little more,” Gedalya says. “About emunah. About tefillah. About ‘b’yadcha afkid ruchi….’”

“She’s too young for that,” Dudi answers.

Their eyes meet. And she’s different from you, Dudi doesn’t say. She’s a scared little girl, and the last thing she needs now, with all her anxieties, is vertlach about neshamos.

“To be honest, maybe I wanted it just as much for myself as for her,” Gedalya admits. “I just… I need to talk with somebody.”

“So talk with me.”

“With you?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“No reason, I just…” Gedalya shrugs and closes his Gemara. “I thought that was another joke from your never-ending comedy routine.”

“Try me.”

Gedalya tries.

• ••

The Gunters had set up a meeting for Nechami with an elderly client who wanted a digital mockup of his future home, inside and out.

“I’ll walk with you to the bus stop on Sarei Yisrael,” Shua offers. “I have time now — my bein hazmanim chavrusa is Nussbaum, and he won’t get to Milkov before ten.”

It’s a rare, precious morning — they have half an hour to walk the length of Rechov Yaffo.

It’s also a costly morning — the bank bit off a big chunk of their income today, 2,000 shekels toward repayment of the loan they took for Tovi’s surgery. Nechami remembers the black words, two lines: one for the principle, one for the interest. She hated it, even if there was a heter.

“Maybe we really could have rented out my office,” she thinks as they step out to the warm street. They’d always refrained from taking loans that required a heter iskah. But that was a thing of the past.

The light rail train ding-dongs alongside them, and an Arab youth pushing a cart laden with baked goods hurries toward Machaneh Yehuda.

“It just seems… unfair,” she grumbles. “We went to so much trouble, all those years, to make sure our account would never go into overdraft, so there’d be no chashash of ribbis.”

“You wanted us not to give your brother the help he needed so badly, so we could stick to our principles?” Shua asks. His eyes, the eyes of a talmid chacham, are cast down, fixed on the pavement. “What good are principles if they keep us from doing a mitzvah d’Oraysa?”

“I wanted Hashem to help us,” she explains. They walk slowly, matching the lazy-morning rhythm of the street. “I thought that since we stuck to our ideals all these years, He would send us the money for Tovi’s surgery some other way.”

“Where are they now?” Shua takes out his phone to check the time. “It’s 9:40 here. What time is it there? Did they land yet?”

“No. They still have… I don’t know. Quite a few hours to go.”

Nechami’s phone rings. It’s Ima. She looks at the screen sadly. She can’t ignore her mother. But the 20 minutes she has left with Shua are so precious to her.

“Nechami,” Ima says breathlessly. “Yaffa’le’s taking a trip to Sinai.”

“To Sinai,” Nechami repeats. A beach, palm trees. A bright sky, sunlight.

“There’s some sort of Bedouin huts there, on the beach. It’s dangerous, it’s disgusting, and wildly irresponsible to do such a thing. And she’s taking Avital with her!”

Nechami takes a deep breath. “Is there something we can do about it?” she asks, keeping her voice light.

“I don’t know,” Ima says tremulously. “That’s why I’m calling, to ask you. Do you think I should call her mother? Miriam Ravikovitz is a good woman, and frum. She just isn’t concerned enough about this couple and the things they do — but this time she’ll have to step in.”

“No, Ima!”

The clock is ticking. In 18 minutes this shining bein hazmanim morning walk will be over. Another train glides by, ringing its bell. Ima recognizes the background noise.

“Where are you, Nechami?”

“On my way to a meeting. Shua’s walking with me as far as the bus stop — it’s bein hazmanim, and he starts learning a bit later.”

“Oy. I won’t bother you, then. We’ll talk later. Enjoy your walk.”

They pass Rechov HaTurim. Their eyes scan the old Shaare Zedek building, and they stop to read the sign. Nechami decides it’s not in her power to interfere with Yaffa’le’s plans at all. Her family will have to manage without her for a little while. She’s taking a stroll now, and she won’t let anyone spoil this bein hazmanim for her.

“Someone could’ve suddenly paid me an old debt, or Bituach Leumi could’ve decided they owe me a refund,” she muses, picking up where she left off. “Or a big client could’ve come along and given me an advance of 30,000.”

“And then what?” Shua asks.

“Then you wouldn’t have had to take that loan from the bank.”

“I had to take that loan,” he says, her special husband, and his voice is like the warmth of the sun. “I had to take it, so we’d learn to how to bend. We needed to learn when to let go of one principle for the sake of another, more important one.”

“So we shouldn’t think we’re too holy.” Her throat tightens up, and they have nine minutes left. She tells him about her sister Chaya and Neve Tzinobarim, about the funeral that will take place one day, and what they won’t be able to say there.

“And then she got all kvetchy about it and wanted to know why she should have to do everything Moishy wants, anyway. And I told her, that’s just the way it is — a woman is compared to the moon, and Hashem punished the moon because—”

Shua interrupts her. “Hashem didn’t punish the moon.”

“Sure He did. He diminished it. The moon came to Him and said two kings can’t share one crown. So Hashem cut off part of it.”

“No.”

“He made it smaller. Whatever, it’s the same thing.” Nechami shrugs.

“No, Nechami.” Shua is laughing. “Hashem didn’t make the moon smaller.”

“Well, who did, then?” She’s looking at him in disbelief.

“Go look it up in Otzar HaChochmah, after your meeting with Gunter and the client. Bye, Nechami. Have a great day. We and all Am Yisrael should have a great day. Your brothers should have a safe landing, and Tovi should have a refuah sheleimah.”

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 902)