| Calligraphy |

On His Own

Breit had stopped walking to face Dovi. “Actually, you didn’t choose this, you were born into it. I married into this though, so I did this to myself”

Dovi Loemer stood off to the side of the circle, listening to the casual conversation outside shul. Frankel parked his new BMW X7 near the shul and Brenner, who was standing in the entrance holding an e-cigarette and a coffee, whistled and said “Trust. Fund. Baby.” and everyone laughed.

Frankel picked up a pebble and dropped it into Brenner’s coffee and Haberman jumped and said, “Waste, waste of milk, of coffee, of the cup, what would old Ronnie say?” and everyone laughed again as they went into the Cypress Creek shul for Minchah.

Truth is, Dovi mused, Frankel’s grandfather may have been a millionaire — maybe a billionaire — but most of Cypress had parents or grandparents in the same league. Not much reverence around here, Dovi thought as he opened the siddur and started davening.

  

Coleman was making a shalom zachar so Kolos was in for Shabbos, making Kabbalas Shabbos longer than usual. Halstock, just returned from vacation in Turks and Caicos (Cancun and St. Barts are so yesterday, he said) had a deep tan he seemed proud of until Sutton said, “Did you see the humpback whale, epic, no?” and then Halstock looked confused, because it was clear he had missed that, and his tan seemed to fade a little.

Ahuva wanted to come to the shalom zachar, but Yossi was kvetchy and needed to go to sleep, and — this was the only real drawback of Cypress — there were no babysitters. No one in a development of homes that started at a million dollars was looking for fifteen-dollar-an hour gigs, and the houses were too far from each other to have a neighbor listen in.

Dovi picked up Chezky Breit and they walked down the cobblestone path to Pacific Way. There were wrought-iron lamps every six feet and matching benches at each corner, just in case anyone in a neighborhood in which the oldest resident was thirty-three would find it hard to walk to shul. (Gershonowitz had almost closed a deal with some rosh kollel to buy the bench Rav Chaim had used on the way to Lederman — he wanted to place it outside the Cypress shul. Someone in Bnei Brak had torpedoed it, but Gershonowitz wasn’t giving up. Imagine the zechus, he kept saying.)

The smell of flowers and cured meat merged at the entrance to Coleman’s house, and Dovi made his way between two huge arrangements that looked like small clouds into the dining room, where there was laughter and noise and a professional bartender mixing drinks.

A waiter approached with a plate of cholent, Kolos started “Abba,” and people from all sides waved Dovi over to open chairs.

Shabbos day there was a Kiddush, and Landau and Hyman, who were partners, brought in a case of tequila, creating a small buzz. Tequila was a change from the usual scotch, though Grigorsky whispered that Japanese tequila was in a different league and he would make sure to have it next week and make a real Kiddush.

Shabbos in Cypress.

  

On Sunday morning, Lieber was hosting a breakfast to benefit a Meah Shearim soup kitchen. In tribute to the Meah Shearim theme, some party planner had covered the walls with a veneer of Jerusalem stone, and the choir was wearing gold and blue striped caftans. Kivi, the guy from TopTier Events, saw Dovi trying to slip out and he pulled him into the kitchen. “Forget the French toast and pancakes, we have Yerushalmi kugel, the real type, maybe take a bit for the rebbetzin.” He winked, and Dovi knew that it was because Kivi wanted the job for the Zichron Shmuel parlor meeting next month.

Lieber squeezed Dovi on the arm. “Thanks for coming, means a lot.” Of course Dovi had come. The developer hadn’t just put up the homes and sold them — he’d pitched them exclusively to a few families, creating a waiting list of those hoping to be counted as part of the club. There were ninety-nine homes, with water on one side and the main road on the other, so whoever was in, was in. It was the Cypress family, and being allowed in came with expectations.

Breit liked to say that half the development was related to each other, siblings and cousins and mechutanim, and the rest would end up related eventually. One day, they would make shidduchim with each other, for sure. In Onyx Court, the next development, it was already happening.

Onyx Court was a sore point. The houses were just a bit bigger and the crowd was older, already pushing forty, and, as Breit liked to dryly point out when it was just he and Dovi talking between themselves, Onyx was for people who had actually made money, while Cypress was for those who didn’t have to.

Oh sure, everyone in Cypress worked hard. There was lots of real estate and nursing home talk (doors and beds, respectively), a few finance guys, and some in manufacturing. Schreiber was a crypto-currency expert (which many people thought was weird), and Sutton was in medical school, though behind his back the guys said it was just to avoid being pushed around by his father-in-law — everyone knew he was a control freak.

Ahuva Loemer had three first cousins on the block; all their homes had been paid for by Zaidy Feldinger who came for one Shabbos every year to share the nachas. Though they all worked together, they preferred not to carpool to the city; the car, Dovi told Ahuva every time she brought it up, was his only safe space. Once they were all at the office, it was seven hours of walking around each other in circles, being variously dispatched to review the bill for the company’s cellphone service, negotiate with small clients, or deal with meshulachim, while the older generation sat inside the office surrounding Zaidy’s desk like bodyguards. If Dovi missed a day of work, no one said anything, and once, he’d missed an entire week after a root canal and when he came back, Zaidy waved graciously and said, “We missed you, how was Florida?”

Once, Dovi confided to Breit that he was desperate to do something else, to have a regular Lakewood job in a regular place where he could do his thing, his way, eating Bissli at his desk if he wanted to, making crumbs on the front of his shirt and talking about a two-and-half day getaway to Florida with real excitement and handling Marriott points.

“Really?” Breit rolled his eyes. “You and every other guy in this place, Dovi. I mean, we all want the big houses and cars and the E-ZPass with getting kids into school, but we’re also bored. Get used to it, brother.”

Breit had stopped walking to face Dovi. “Actually, you didn’t choose this, you were born into it. I married into this though, so I did this to myself.”

Dovi stared at him.

“I sold my soul for a lifetime of Succos in Israel.” Breit started walking again. “You were on a one-way trip to Boredom Incorporated anyway. I could have married poor and earned real respect by making money selling clean energy or something, but now, even when I put in a good day, no one cares.”

And then, because he realized how it sounded, Breit stopped and laughed uneasily, because of course he was happy. They were all happy. Everyone was happy.

  

“Ahuva.” Dovi hadn’t prepared what he was going to say. A person shouldn’t have to prepare speeches for their wife. “What would you think if I left the business?”

She looked up vacantly from the open cookbook. Then, processing what he said, she carefully put the bookmark in, closed it, and looked up.

“And do what?”

“I just need a change, you know…” He was speaking slowly and was surprised to see her face light up.

“Yes, totally, why don’t you deals? Lazer Tishler left QualCare to do his own deals and Chaya told me Yitzy is doing the same thing, he had enough of the commute, he does deals and makes his own schedule. You can for sure do deals, you have such a great personality.”

Dovi shrugged, unsure of what else to say, and then went to charge his phone. Ahuva went back to the cookbook.

But the next day, Dovi remembered the conversation and mentioned it to Breit. “How do I get started?” he asked.

Breit took off his glasses, then put them back on, as if trying to make sure he was seeing straight. “Dovi Loemer? Really? Nice. Here, I’m sending you a contact. Call him.”

  

Shmuli Kranz, broker to the stars, as Breit called him, had a voice mail that was full. Dovi almost lost his resolve, but then decided that he would text before giving up.

Hey, hope all is well, my name is Dovi Loemer, was looking into diff investment ideas and s/o suggested I call you?

He hadn’t even put his phone down yet when the answer came. Loemer/Feldinger?

It sounded like a law firm, and for a moment Dovi was tempted to show Ahuva how their family names looked together, but then he remembered Breit’s instructions not to tell Ahuva too much about what he was doing. Kranz was the easy route, he put together the whole deal: all you had to was bring funding and you got to feel like a big businessman. “It’s win-win, you sign some papers, pretend you chap, and then when you’re sitting at a simchah and people ask what you do, you talk about all the deals you’re involved in,” Breit had explained. “But you don’t have to tell your wife you’re doing it that way. Let her think you know what you’re doing.”

Yes, my shver is Sam Feldinger.

I can meet at 2:30 tom. Works?

Dovi felt like he was being given special access and quickly confirmed the appointment before someone richer moved in to grab it.

  

Kranz worked out of a plain office in Howell. A huge map of the United States covering one wall was the only décor.

“Cypress Creek, nice.” He had an easy laugh. “I have a client or two up there, it’s after Toms River, right? Near Island Lakes? I should open a second office.”

Dovi smiled. Did other people in his neighborhood need to come on to Kranz, going the easy route, too?

“Okay, so not sure what you heard, but basically, we have deals ready to go. You can review this,” he pushed a folder at Dovi, “and see what we’ve done and our record. We know what we’re doing. You come in and provide funding, becoming a partner. You’ll get dividend checks, of course, a bigger payout down the road, b’ezras Hashem, when the investment starts to bear fruit, and you’ll also be part of the action so that you can feel the business from inside.”

Kranz spoke in a monotone, but Dovi heard Breit’s voice. So that you can pretend you’re doing something and feel busy.

“We’re moving into New Hampshire now, it’s a very hot state and we’re very serious there. Also some stuff in Texas and Florida, any preference?” Kranz asked the question as if he expected Dovi to know the answer.

“Do you have anything nearby?” Dovi asked. He knew it sounded dumb, as if he was looking for a parking spot, but if he was going to do this, he needed something he could touch. He imagined pulling over on the way to Entrée and pointing out a construction site to Ahuva — “Hey, take a look, that’s where we’re building.”

“In Lakewood? Not really, but just out of Lakewood, in Jackson, there’s an old public works building that we got, it’s going to be rezoned and developed, I’m deciding whether to do a shopping mall or townhouses, you can jump in for less than a million if you want. We actually have some guys from Cypress in on this already.”

“Who?” Dovi asked, realizing a moment too late that Kranz wouldn’t answer.

Kranz smiled. “Whatever, nice folks, don’t worry.” He said this slowly, as if to let Dovi know how important privacy was to him.

Dovi was excited about the prospect of having partners in the neighborhood. Then, at Kiddush, he would end up next to them and they would share a l’chayim, winking at each other. Maybe he would ask Ahuva to make an effort to be nice to that guy’s wife — “We have business together. It’s important to me.”

“I would be interested in that,” Dovi said.

Kranz nodded. “I’ll take care of the paperwork, can you access the funding by the end of the month?”

Dovi nodded. It was doable, he thought.

“Look, I don’t know how it works, if you go to your father, your wife’s father, whoever, but try to swing some funding for New Hampshire. It’ll make you look very good within two years.”

Dovi gulped and nodded. It was like this guy could read his mind.

“And listen, the nature of these things is like, you know, they’re only half listening to your details, but they want to know that you understand the deal, so I prepared a one-page synopsis that has all the major info you need, just read it and you’ll sound like you developed this deal from the ground up. It’s no biggie. We have both Loemer and Feldinger dollars in our projects, don’t worry. You got this.”

As Dovi was leaving, Kranz called him back. “But for real, Dovi, read the papers well, do your own due diligence, ask around. Be educated. And then we’re off to the races.”

  

On Monday night, Dovi drove to Brooklyn to speak to Tatty Feldinger. On Tuesday morning, he spoke to his own father, who was in Europe, so the phone connection wasn’t great. He told Daddy he was jumpy to do his own thing, trying not to imagine his father’s expression of mild disbelief, and also that his shver was all in and thought it was a great idea. He just wanted seed money, and down the road, when things came together, of course he would return it. Daddy laughed.

The next Monday, the money was in his account and he called Kranz back. He was ready to play ball.

“Okay, listen, stick your toe in, don’t give up your day job yet.” Kranz laughed. “And of course, daven for our success, we’re all dependent on siyata d’Shmaya. Welcome aboard. Come by and sign some papers when you’re able.”

On Friday, he took the day off, telling Ahuva that he wanted to check out a property, carefully watching her reaction. She didn’t say anything, but on Motzaei Shabbos, she was on the phone with Miri and she said something about Dovi starting to do his own deals and she hoped he would still have time for the family.

Dovi hadn’t even told Breit he was doing this — from this point on, Kranz would know, but no one else had to.

On Sunday, after he finished learning, he drove toward Jackson feeling very whole, as if a door inside him had opened and he was reaching his own full potential.

This was something he would never share with another human being, but before leaving, he had Googled things to look for when viewing a property and he felt somewhat ready.

He drove slowly, looking around and trying to have the eyes of a developer. At one point, he saw a For Sale sign on a small shack, set back from the road, and he pulled over to take a picture. Maybe he would send it to Kranz. In a few months, he would be able to do this on his own, probably, but for now, it felt safer to use Kranz.

Just for now.

Fifteen minutes later, he parked at the edge of an empty lot, walking out of the car and circling gingerly, as if the lines in the cracked asphalt would tell him a story. He felt good, though, like after he played basketball. Determined to prove his worth, he prepared the text to Kranz, then deleted and rewrote it a few times. Checked out the property. Potential here is amazing, can see this being a major shopping hub.

Kranz replied with a thumbs-up.

  

Over the next few weeks, Dovi found reasons to drive over to the property before or after work. At Kranz’s suggestion, he went up to Ithaca to see another deal, two hundred and fifty garden apartments. It was fun, but on Shabbos, he found out that two other guys from Cypress — Perl and Eilenbach — had gone to see the same property, but they had flown up private and been back a few hours later. Dovi hadn’t realized that was an option.

Okay, things took time. Maybe he had to make it a point to sit near them at Kiddush.

Late one winter afternoon, Dovi was driving near the Lakewood/Jackson border when he noticed a little boy running at the side of road, shoulders hunched and fists clenched, like he was escaping from someone. Dovi slowed down and saw a young man with a black hat and beard hurrying after the child, trying to overtake him. The boy turned suddenly, cutting between the trees and through an empty parking lot, and Dovi instinctively followed them in.

The boy had sat down on a curb and the man, panting heavily, reached him. They both looked up as Dovi ran over, waving his cellphone like a weapon.

“What’s the issue here?”

The man was still struggling to catch his breath, and the boy looked right through Dovi, as if he wasn’t even there.

Finally, the man pushed himself up to his feet. He was wearing an old, faded black suit and his white shirt was untucked. “Shalom, shalom, I’m Gershon,” he said. “It’s all okay here, this is my friend, Shimshy, we’re just getting calmed down and we’re going to start learning again.”

“Aha.” Dovi nodded like a private investigator reading the scene. “Okay then, hatzlachah.”

As he walked backwards, Gershon whispered, “I’m with Kasheves,” and Dovi nodded, as if he knew what that meant. He watched Gershon; he was rumpled and sweaty, but there was an intense concentration emanating from him. Gershon placed on arm on the child’s shoulder and said, “Shimshy, I know that was rough. I know exactly what made you upset, but running away doesn’t help stuff, you know that. They’re still in school, and until you learn how to deal with them correctly, this will be an issue.”

The boy kicked a rock and then looked up. “So?”

Dovi pretended to leave, but he stood behind the tree, transfixed.

“So let’s try to talk about a better way, let’s speak it out and imagine it. Tomorrow, you come into class and Boruch is doing his thing, you feel a wet paper towel hit the back of your neck when the rebbi’s back is turned, or he trips you in the hallway during recess. The first thing you want to do is deprive him of the power — don’t show that you’re hurt. He’s mean, it’s true, but he’s also needy, and he needs the power of getting you to react. It’s oxygen, and you can cut off the oxygen supply, do you know what that means? You ignore it once, twice, the third time, and when you feel able, you look him in the eye — preferably in front of other people — and you say, ‘Hey, Boruch, I’m not sure why you need to do this to me or how it makes you feel better. But to be honest, it just makes me feel sad for you. I’m so sorry for whatever you’re going through, buddy.’ Got it, Shimsh?”

“I can’t do that and you know it.” The boy’s voice was like a roar. “You know it.”

“Yah, except you can,” Gershon said without hesitating. “You can and you will. Let’s act it out, okay?”

Dovi headed back to his car, but as soon as he pulled out of the parking lot, he parked again and checked Kasheves’s website.

Kasheves matches up young men and women in need of a listening ear with experienced mentors. Click here to apply as a mentor or recommend a child in need of our services.

  

The next day, he went to work, but the day after that he excused himself, planning to drive to see a property near Philadelphia. Kranz had it on good authority that a new hospital was being approved and the neighboring land would triple in value. But after Shacharis Dovi made a stop; he headed to the Kasheves office, which was in the back of a house on Forest Avenue, near yeshivah.

Dovi was thinking of Gershon as he walked up the wooden steps. He couldn’t get the yungerman’s face out of his mind — his eyes, his voice, the gentle confidence in the way he spoke to the boy.

No one answered his knock, and Dovi pushed the metal door, which opened easily. The front office was empty, but a young man was on the phone in the back room. He waved at Dovi and motioned — one minute.

Dovi sat down on a faded couch and picked up a pamphlet. Sometimes, it’s just about listening. And, Kasheves is not there for children in crisis: Kasheves is there so that we will have fewer children in crisis!

“Hi, Avi Landman.” He was short and slim, with a trimmed beard, rimless glasses, and a sense of purpose that made him look like a perfectly assembled child’s toy, a mentshie with every single limb clicked into place. “How can we help?”

“Hi, Dovi Loemer.” Dovi paused, expecting the inevitable flash of recognition, but if Landman recognized the name, he didn’t show it.

“I’ll be honest, I noticed a guy working with a kid, random story, whatever, and I was taken by it, I’m not sure why. But I wanted to hear more about what you do, maybe get involved.”

Landman frowned, then said, “Okay, sure. We find that there are so many great, functional kids, no real issues. They don’t need therapy or intervention, just a bit of extra attention, a listening ear. Their parents are overwhelmed, or in some cases, not around for whatever reason. That’s where we come in, we work with the schools and try to make sure that every kid has someone to hang out with, usually a yungerman in kollel. We pay nicely, very nicely actually, so we attract quality yungeleit, some of them are made for it. We’re seeing great results, baruch Hashem. I don’t know who you saw—”

“His name was Gershon,” Dovi blurted, and then felt embarrassed.

“Ah, Gershon Lampel, takeh a superstar.” Rabbi Landman smiled. “We give him the harder cases. If you would want to try this, we’d give you an easier child, don’t worry.”

“No, no.” Dovi smiled. “That’s not why I came, not at all.” He was back on safe territory now. “I came from the other side of the table, I’d like to help. I was very moved by what I saw, maybe I can host an event or something?” I want Gershon Lampel with the rumpled suit and focused look to get a fat bonus before Yom Tov.

Rabbi Landman was quiet for a minute and Dovi felt a familiar sense of panic. “Actually—”

Actually, we just confirmed that we’re doing an event at Krieger in Cypress Creek, do you know where that is?

“Actually,” Rabbi Landman shifted to face Dovi, “that’s a nice offer, but I think you’d be a great mentor. Let’s try that and then talk about the other stuff.”

“Me? A mentor?”

“Right. Exactly. I have a kid in mind, it’s just taking him for a drive, maybe for ice cream or something. Wait, I’ll tell you everything you have to know. You’ll be great.”

He turned and walked to his office, and came back with a Post-It note. “Here, trust me, you’ll nail this.”

Chaim Tzvi Webberman, 112 Clearbury, 7:00 p.m.

“Reb Dovi, we never — and I mean it, never — sent out a mentor without a thorough vetting process, and we have more applicants than kids right now, but this time, I’m being somech on my instincts. You’re gonna do great. I can tell.”

  

The boy was waiting outside, a chubby kid with red hair.

“Hey,” Dovi said as he jumped out and waved the boy over. “Come in, come in.”

The boy skipped off the sidewalk and climbed into the car.

“Nice car,” he said.

This was already awkward, Dovi thought, as he turned the other way to pull back into traffic.

“It’s no big deal,” he said, “but thanks.” (No big deal if you would see the other cars in my neighborhood, he thought.)

“No big deal? Genesis G90? It’s near 70k.” The boy spoke like he was sitting at Kiddush in Cypress, Dovi thought. “Probably the most expensive luxury sedan. Only three dealers in New Jersey.”

“Wow, you sure know your beans,” Dovi said, then quickly regretted it. It sounded like the way he spoke to Yossi, who was two years old. “You into cars, Chaim Tzvi?”

The boy turned to look at him.

“I’m not into cars. I just like cars.”

“Great, what kind of car does your father drive?” Dovi asked, realizing yet again that it was a dumb question.

“My father? We have an Odyssey and my mother has a little Echo but it’s not working now, she borrowed my grandfather’s car this week. Our family is not big on Olam Hazeh,” he said, and it sounded to Dovi like his tone was mocking.

He was twelve years old, Dovi thought, too young to be cynical.

“That’s a good way to live,” Dovi said, and Chaim Tzvi’s eyes flashed.

“Really?” he looked at Dovi. “Really, Mr. Gucci shoes? Hermes belt? It’s a good way to live?”

Dovi was quiet, but he felt himself growing upset. He pulled into the Glatt Bite parking lot. “Come, let’s get some food and we’ll schmooze inside.”

They ordered and sat down, eating silently, Dovi preparing himself.

“You know, Chaim Tzvi,” he finally said, “maybe you heard of the Mesilas Yesharim, and how everyone is facing their own personal test? It’s really true. You want that belt, so you think that if you had it, you would be happy. The one who has it, though, has his own challenges that keep him from happiness. Makes sense?”

Chaim Tzvi had an oversized order of chicken poppers, and there was a little trickle of sauce on his chin. He picked up a napkin to wipe it and leaned back on the brown fake leather chair.

“Yah, I guess so.”

“So don’t be quick to assume that my Hermes belt makes me happy, just like I don’t believe that your whatever belt makes you unhappy. There’s more going on in life than that.”

“I know that, but it’s easier to feel that way when you have the belt,” Chaim Tzvi said. “My class is starting with bar mitzvahs, and I know like four hundred kids will get Borsalinos and my parents will give the speech about using money wisely and everything in the right time and there’s no reason a thirteen-year-old boy….”

Dovi smiled. “You’re a sharp kid. But you know what? Can I be honest?”

Chaim Tzvi looked up. “Okay,” he said uneasily.

“You’re a very cool looking kid. You’ve got it, the x-factor, you don’t need the tie or hat. The other guys wish they were as cool as you. You have nothing to worry about, Chaim Tzvi. You’re winning by a mile just cause of what you already have.”

This time, Dovi Loemer knew that he had said the right thing.

  

On Thursday night just after supper, the doorbell rang.

“For you, Dovi,” Ahuva called out.

That didn’t happen often. In Cypress, meshulachim came on Sunday mornings and Tuesday nights only — Landau, who had instituted that takanah, had announced it at the residents meeting and said, “Don’t worry for a second, they know it’s well worth it for them,” and beamed like a child who has eaten everything on his plate. “Well worth it,” he repeated.

Dovi closed his Chumash and headed to the front door. He saw the old Camry down at the curb before he saw the person on the porch, and even then, it took a moment for him to register who it was.

“Shalom, Avi Landman.” Rabbi Landman was wearing a hat and jacket now.

“Hi, how are you? Do you want to come in?” Dovi asked, feeling very self-conscious.

“No, I don’t want to disturb, I just wanted you to have this before Shabbos.”

He handed Dovi an envelope, then bowed and headed down the wide basalt staircase, one hand holding gingerly to the glass-paneled railing.

Dovi slipped the envelope into his pocket, suddenly desperate for privacy.

“Who was that?” Ahuva asked, but he could see that she was asking out of courtesy, not curiosity, so Dovi just shrugged and said, “A guy from one of the mosdos in town.”

“Nice,” she said, and went back to her shalach manos list.

Dovi closed the door to his study and opened the envelope. Inside were three twenty-dollar bills and a hand-written note on Kasheves stationary.

We generally pay eighty dollars an hour, but we like to start mentors off at sixty and see if they stick around. I think you’re a keeper, Dovi, and Chaim Tzvi hopes you’ll come again next week Monday. He loved it.

Dovi, agav, he told me you were different from the last two people we tried, because one bought him an Armani tie and the other one told him that he would hire him to put together furniture until he had enough money for the hat he wants. You were the first person who told him that he doesn’t need a cool tie to be cool. Like I said, you’re a natural. I saw that when you came in, that you got what we do and you felt it in your bones.

So don’t worry about making events. Worry about making people.

AL

Dovi read the card a second time, then a third time. He stood up and placed it on a high shelf, then fingered the three twenties, his heart racing with a new sort of joy.

Without putting them down, he dialed Grigorsky.

“Hey Shaulie, what’s up, any chance Kiddush is still available this Shabbos? I want to sponsor, can I?”

It was quiet for a moment and then Grigorsky said, “Yep, you’re in luck. Wide open. Usual order, shul will bill you, right?”

“Perfect, thanks, good night.”

Dovi hung up, still smiling, and Ahuva walked into the study.

“Dovs, you’re giving Kiddush, very nice! What’s the occasion?”

He smiled even wider, and running a finger along the edge of one of the bills in his pocket, he said, “I made a good deal this week.”

Ahuva Loemer smiled. “That’s great Dovi, really great.” 

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 854)

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