Even a wheelchair can't stop him

Illustrated by Esti Saposh

Chapter 1

Thursday morning, December 11th

“N

ice job on the eggs, Rosen, but they’re in dire need of salt.” The back of Nachum’s blond head called to me as he sat in his wheelchair on our mirpeset. I could see his bowl and fork sitting on his shtender, untouched.

“You haven’t tried them yet,” I called back.

“Yes, but I can see that they’re not salted enough.” He speared an egg globule and turned to point it at my face. “Sodium causes egg proteins to uncoil and lose their structure, so salted eggs have a deeper and more saturated color. These are far too pale, Rosen. Grab me the salt shaker from the kitchen. Oh, and while you’re there, can I trouble you for the popcorn?”

“The popcorn’s from Shabbos. Today’s Thursday.”

“Your point, Rosen? Hurry, if you can.”

I looked down at my roommate. My expression must have betrayed my agitation.

“Please,” he added sweetly, his hands beneath his chin.
“Fine,” I exhaled. Back to the kitchen I went, mentally counting the days until Nachum finally gets his casts off.

You might think that Nachum got injured on the job — after all, he’s known for his run-ins with the Russian mafia and a crime ring in Jenin (see episodes #5 and #27, respectively, of our podcast). But, no… leave it to Nachum Sparks, Jerusalem’s most famous detective, to break both his legs trying to take down our menorahs from the machsan. If only he had labeled the boxes normally as I had suggested, instead of using simanim from Shulchan Aruch-Orach Chayim (Pesach stuff = 451; Chanukah = 670; Winter clothing = 114), he might not have had to shift so many boxes around until he lost his footing and fell off the ladder. But alas, no one ever listens to me around here. Ten more days, I thought to myself with a sigh.

“Hurry, Rosen! It’s almost starting!” Nachum yelled from outside.

I raced back with the salt and popcorn. “What’s almost starting?”

“Morning in Jerusalem.” Nachum gestured to an empty Keter chair.

“I’m not following,” I said, taking a seat.

“Look at the mirpesets, Rosen. Tell me there isn’t something exhilarating about it — the entire city starting their day at the same time.” Glancing at his watch, Nachum pointed with a finger like a conductor’s baton to the building directly in front of us. “Cue the chazzan.” Suddenly, a deep baritone voice sang out a vocal exercise. “Like clockwork,” said Nachum. “That’s the famous Chazzan Neuman. He davens at Shtilerman’s. He practices every morning. In five minutes, Mr. Friedman, two buildings to the left, one floor below” — his finger traveled across the skyline — “will begin his piano lessons. So far, it’s been Bach, Prelude no. 1 in C Minor… Now, Rosen, put out your hand.” From above, a soapy droplet landed in the center of my palm. “That’s Mrs. Pessin sponja-ing, as she does every Thursday morning l’kavod Shabbos. Her married kids must be coming, as you can already hear the clink of china; she uses chad pa’ami when it’s just her and her husband. Ahh… but this is really the thrill…” Nachum leaned forward in his wheelchair. “Will Naftali Freudlich make his hasa’ah this morning?”