H

e’d been up early, davening with his father in the hospital at 6:00, had made it back for minyan, then had gone to learn in the familiar mesivta near his parents’ house. Shloimy picked up Asher, Yossi, and Chezky on his way to the supermarket. He watched them revel in the car ride, the shopping carts, the wide aisles, and the selection of nosh. The appetizing section had grown into a showcase of ready-made everything-you-could-wish-for, so different than the makolet back in Yerushalayim, and his boys gaped at the sushi counter. “What is that, Tatty?”

In the afternoon, Shloimy returned to the hospital to spend time with his father. Tzivi cooked while the boys played in the big yard, on the swing set which had been a part of his own childhood. The space, the ball, the trees, and the fat pink worms created a wonderland for the three active little boys. “There’s a park in Bubba’s garden,” Yossi greeted his father when he returned after a long day, excitedly showing him his stash of acorns.

Two days later, Shloimy was unloading the car with the kids, when Mrs. Helder, his parents’ neighbor, passed by. After inquiring about Tatty and volunteering her definitive opinion on who each of the boys looked like, she added that her boys were running a day camp this year under her supervision. It was the perfect solution for Asher, Yossi, and Chesky’s active hands and itchy feet, and Shloimy had to laugh when he saw them eagerly practicing baseball. Swimming, sports, learning groups, and boy-friendly crafts brought them home tired and happy at 3:00 in the afternoon.

When his sister did make it over to visit Tatty for a few days, she was schlepping a bulging Nordstrom bag of kids’ clothing.

“Clothing for your boys, from my Yisroel,” she said, nonchalantly, putting it down outside his door.

“All of it? It looks like two wardrobes. You’re not keeping it for Chaim?” Her second son was four, just between Yossi and Chezky.

“Nah, I can’t reuse. You take it.”

The T-shirts and sweaters were accompanied by two full Shabbos outfits. Shloimy felt the wool. Tzivi would love this stuff. “You don’t like it? You don’t want to keep the Shabbos stuff at least? Or is Chaim a different season?”

Shifra sighed. “Just take it. Yes, I like it, but I can’t put it on again three years later. Styles change, there’s no way Chaim will be able to wear it.”

Shloimy stayed quiet. There were styles for little boys’ clothing? Ladies clothing fashions changed, of course. Tzivi sewed or bought something updated each Yom Tov. Men’s styles changed, although in Shloimy’s opinion that was for bachurim to worry about, not yungerleit. But six-year old boys? Who knew? He refolded the sweater set.

“You gotta go with these things,” Shifra continued, and now she sounded tired. “We’re not fancy people, Shloimy, I don’t buy my kids everything. But my son can’t be the only kid not wearing this season’s colors.”

“Uh huh,” Shloimy said, thinking of Shifra’s husband, Dovi, who loved to sit and learn and had planned to write a sefer on basar b’chalav one day.

“You’re lucky, you people in Eretz Yisrael,” Shifra said. “You don’t have that kind of pressure there.”

***

“I

t’s good news, Tzivi,” her mother-in-law came into the house, tired and rumpled but with a big smile of relief. “They’ll be sending Tatty to rehab next week. I have to start researching where…” Tzivi quickly set a coffee and a neatly-cut sandwich on the table. The kitchen smelled of soup… and maybe potato kugel, too?

“Oh Tzivi, you’re a doll. A wonder. It smells like Shabbos is coming. Thank you so much, dear.”

“That’s such good news, Ma,” Tzivi said gently.

“How are the boys doing? I was just remembering I have smocks somewhere in the basement, and a lot of dress-up stuff in the Purim box. Once Tatty’s in the rehab we can take them to see him.”

Tzivi walked over to the window. Tatty was more himself every day, and she was thrilled to hear he would be released soon. More than that, though, the kids would be at loose ends once day camp was over. She doubted any cheder would take temporary students, and how could they miss so much school? Now, during the summer, though, all was well. Shloimy had shown Asher which Rashis he should learn on the parshah, and he was reviewing on the deck. Yossi lay full-length next to him, tongue between his teeth as he concentrated on drawing Alef Beis next to the examples his mother had neatly penciled in. Chezky was chasing butterflies in the yard. There was a certain peace in the scene that almost choked Tzivi up. Funny how her family did not miss the neighborly, homey warmth of Yerushalayim as she did.

“They’re fine, Ma,” she said. “I can’t believe how they love it here. Do you want me to make chopped liver or pieces for Shabbos?”

***

R

ehab was hard work, but Mr. Weiler had worked hard all his life. Nothing could stop him once he was on the road to recovery.

Nine weeks after Shloimy had arrived home, the kids splashed in puddles and chattered as he packed up the car to go to the airport. For some reason, he himself was choked up. How had going so far from his parents ever been easy?

“Ma, if you want me to come again, I can come.”

“Oy, Shloimy,” she replied. “You go do what’s best for you, for your family and your learning. What’s best for Tatty and me is to know you are thriving.”

***

I

t was one of those afternoons when Tzivi thought she would lose it completely.

Shloimy warned her when she came home from work that Asher had come home ripe for trouble. “Do you know what happened?” she asked.

“No. I think he might have started to tell me, but Chezky also needed attention, and I had to give the baby a bottle, so … and he thought we were having pancakes and it was French toast. He’s taking it out on Yossi, you need to separate them.” He was out the door when there was a yell from the bedroom and the sound of scuffling. Still wearing her coat, Tzivi dashed into the fray.

Two hours later, Shloimy called her from yeshivah.

“How’s it going?”

“We’re in the park,” Tzivi said. She had hurriedly eaten some crackers and hummus and changed out of her work clothing before heading out. “They’re still not great. Asher says he doesn’t want babies like Yossi and Chezky sleeping in his room anymore. Also his rebbi said he shouldn’t be bringing a ball to cheder. My mother thought that might be an unspoken rule.”

“Mmm,” Shloimy said. Tzivi watched Asher hurtle up the small slide and down the sliding pole, holding Yossi’s helmet. Two tiny girls who had been waiting at the top shrieked to their mothers. Yossi was trying, with his little five-year-old hands, to break a handlebar off Asher’s bike in revenge. Chezky came over to her, his face worried. “Mommy, I need to go to the bathroom.”

She stood up. “That’s it, kids, we’re going. We’ll make pizza at home for supper, kay?”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Shloimy said.

***

H

e met Freimark in the makolet near yeshivah, stocking up on the week’s specials: two packages of chocolate chips for fifteen shekel and cottage cheese for four-fifty.

“How’s it going?” Shloimy asked him, picking up the sale items, too.

“Baruch Hashem.” Ari Freimark smiled. “Just got good news. They’re going to take me in Rabbi Lindenbaum’s kollel next zman.”

“Mazel tov, good for you. It’s a chashuve kollel.”

“They say it’s a great oilam so I’m pretty happy. That was my first choice,” his friend continued. “I applied two other places, because of the time issue.”

Shloimy looked at him blankly. “You’re in a hurry to go?”

“Well, I want to get my kids settled in school already. But mainly, I’m turning thirty, and that’s it. Most kollelim I would be interested in only take guys under thirty. If you’re overage, you can forget about it. They get a ton of applications, don’t need to make exceptions.”

The chocolate chips almost slipped from Shloimy’s hands as the words penetrated. His twenty-ninth birthday had been celebrated with a family party two months before. The boys had helped Tzivi decorate a cake and she’d bought him a new siddur for his tallis bag. Thirty was the cut-off point for any decisions? He felt breathless as he paid and hurried home.

At thirty he could no longer get into a kollel in America. The time for a move would be over. But anyway he had no decision to make about where to live. When he had married Tzivi, his in-laws had provided an apartment. It was his, with relatively easy mortgage payments. And here he would live in Yerushalayim. Stuck in Yerushalayim. He felt a red shame creep up his face. You sheigetz! This is Yerushalayim.

My parents need us and we’re far. Tzivi’s parents need us here. They expect us here. They expect other things also… My parents let us lead our own lives…The boys’ faces as they had glowed on the recent trip to America came back to him. The way they fought here… the way he had recently felt that all Asher’s sweetness was lost in aggression and competition. Yeshivah. The Torah in the air. But Rabbi Lindenbaum’s kollel was also very shtark. He knew great guys there. As he walked, it dawned on him that the idea of moving had subconsciously been a possibility in his mind. But he had only a few months left!

They were up the whole night, a first for their marriage. Surprisingly, Tzivi did not reject the idea out of hand, as Shloimy had assumed, although it meant leaving her own family an ocean away. An intense discussion ping-ponged back and forth in the toy-strewn salon. Kedushah. Gashmiyus. Standards. Pressures. Conforming. Learning. Jobs. Being near grandparents. Friends. Living Space. Yishuv hada’as. Each was aired and evaluated. They had always taken living in Eretz Yisrael for granted, but had the decision been made too blindly or hastily? Had it been made by them at all?

By the time Shloimy stumbled out to neitz the next morning, he had arranged two phone interviews with kollelim in America.

***

B

rocha Birnbaum wheeled a shopping cart adeptly around the little store. It smelled of citrus. She filled a bag of apples, then pears, then some oranges and one large pomelo. Rifky loved those. A few kiwis for Shabbos, they were full of Vitamin C. Good for Tzivi and the kids. She took carrot and squash, then turned to the butternut squash. Expensive and bruised. Sweet potato would do for a soup instead.

“Hi, Brocha. What’s doing?”

“How are you, Suri? Baruch Hashem, Baruch Hashem. When are you making the chasunah?”

“End of Shevat, im yirtzeh Hashem.”

They both considered the tomatoes.

“Tell me, how many rooms is the apartment?” Suri asked.

“Apartment?”

“Tzivi’s. My niece Ruchi is looking to move, rent out her place and rent something bigger.”

Brocha blinked. “She thinks Tzivi would want to switch with her? Why? Why would Tzivi want to do that?”

Suri looked at her neighbor’s face, and the silence stretched a minute. “I guess not,” Suri said finally. “I guess I misunderstood what Ruchi was saying.”

Brocha locked eyes with her. “No,” she said unsteadily. “I think maybe…Please. Tell me what you meant.”

Suri looked like she wished she was anywhere but in Moshe’s little fruit and vegetable store.

“I heard Tzivi might want to move and was looking to rent out her place. I don’t know if I heard that right.”

Brocha tried to breathe. Maybe they want to save some money by renting it and moving into something smaller? “Uh, okay,” she said, and tried not to feel ridiculously embarrassed. “I just remembered I have to pick up something from the pharmacy,” she said to Suri, and she walked out of the store. A half-filled wagon of produce stood where she had left it.

***

S

he peeled carrots for a vegetable soup, her mind doing gymnastics. Yocheved had gone back to the fruit store in the afternoon. What? What on earth are Tzivi and Shloimy planning? And why haven’t they discussed it with us?

The phone rang, and Brocha reached for the headset.

“Rebbetzin Birnbaum? This is Chaya Sara Miller calling. Um, you taught me in Shiras Chana three years ago. I live in Gush Shmonim.”

“Mrs. Birnbaum,” Brocha corrected her. “Nice to hear from you, Chaya Sara. Beautiful that you live here. What can I do for you?”

“We were wondering if we could invite the Reb…er, you, to speak at a melave malka for our Neshei in a few weeks?”

“Um. Which week is this?”

“Parshas Bo.”

Brocha thought. She loved the idealism of the young seminary girls she taught, the potential they represented, the way they came to Eretz Yisrael so open to growth. True, they were open to many other things too, but Brocha was a mechaneches with an optimistic view of the up and coming generation. As if her old student could read her hesitation, she jumped in with the clincher.

“It’s a group of young marrieds. And the theme is Eretz Yisrael. Like, why do we really live here, and what are we supposed to be doing here, you know. We were hoping that could be the topic for your address.”

“I’d love to come,” Brocha said. “Please give me a call to remind me the Sunday before. I’m looking forward to joining you.”

The remaining carrots and sweet potato almost seemed to peel themselves. Brocha’s mind was on her shiur. She’d retell this story… that mashal… mention the famous Michtav M’Eliyahu that never failed to excite her students.

It was so important that these young women understand that Yerushalayim was not just a place like any other, but a unique opportunity, a life above. When lived correctly, Eretz Yisrael could elevate the whole family, give purpose and life and meaning and …

“Brocha?” Yaakov Zev appeared next to her in the kitchen. He was wearing his jacket and twirling his hat.

“Hi Yaakov Zev.” Brocha turned around.

The hat dropped on to a kitchen chair. Yaakov Zev rubbed both eyes under his glasses.

Brocha’s stomach flip-flopped. “What?”

“I met Shloimy at Maariv,” her husband said.

***

T

he next day was Brocha’s longest teaching day. She began at 9:15 in Bnos Laya, then taught from 11:45 to 2:15 in Shiras Chana. Last night’s news clawed at her mind, giving her a king-size headache. In between classes, she let her mind wander there, working itself up to a feverish pitch.

The news Yaakov Zev had brought from Shloimy.

There was no way. No way in the world that her Tzivi, married to the special ben Torah they had hand-picked for her, was moving to Chutz La’aretz. Tzivi was the wonderful eldest daughter she had raised. Shloimy was the metzuyan, the eidel boy whose maturity and understanding had stood out from the crowd at age 22. They should leave Eretz Yisrael?

“We went into debt for that apartment,” she whispered harshly to Yaakov Zev, who had hastily closed the kitchen door when he saw her face. “We bought them an apartment in Yerushalayim, for goodness sake. We gave them everything. They have it made for them. And they want to waltz off to America?”

“It’s just an option they might consider. And he’s from there.”

“Couples come from there and rent dingy apartments for years, struggling on a shoestring. They own a new three-bedroom, two porches.”

He stayed quiet.

Brocha traced her finger on the floury tabletop. “I know. We would have had to give our daughter a nadan and we gave it to them with love. But leave that aside — this was never our understanding. It’s obvious that if you marry a girl from here, you live here.”

“If they feel that their tafkid is there, they have to go there,” Yaakov Zev reminded her. “Each person has a place he is supposed to be.”

“True,” Brocha said. “But why? WHY would they go?” Her voice rose in pained question. “Tell me, Yaakov Zev, because I just don’t understand. They literally have everything here. A home in Eretz Yisrael, yeshivos and kollelim of any type …family, financial stability. Help and support and babysitters…” There were tears in her eyes.

***

S

hloimy didn’t tell many people why he was travelling, and they assumed it was to visit his father. But to Tatty and Mommy he mentioned the interview. They listened. “What do you think?” Shloimy persisted.

“Us?” Tatty said, as if he hadn’t thought of it. “We think it’s up to you and Tzivi to decide.”

“And we wish you hatzlachah wherever you to go,” his mother added. There was no getting more out of them.

The interview went really well.

“We’ll get back to you,” Rabbi Lindenbaum shook Shloimy’s hand. But after they’d spent almost two hours in intense conversation, he knew that consulting with the rosh chaburah was just a formality in this case. Shloimy Weiler was exactly the type of yungerman the kollel wanted. Clever, serious, frum, and dedicated. Rabbi Lindenbaum underlined the name twice on his list.

***

S

hloimy learned on, the task demanding all his focus as everything around him began to move. Between sedarim he helped Tzivi with the kids and called America more in one day than he used to in an entire week. They hadn’t told many people about their deliberations, but somehow the news seeped slowly through the crowd in yeshivah and at Tzivi’s work. Housing options and a job for Tzivi seemed remote at first, then possibilities swam into focus. Maybe it could work.

It was sometime in Sivan when Shloimy received a late Motzaei Shabbos visit and a proposal from a neighborhood rav and a cheder administrator.

“Rabbi Tager will be leaving our cheder this summer,” the administrator said abruptly.

The name meant nothing. Shloimy wasn’t up on the neighborhood gossip.

The rav gave a small smile of approval when he saw the lack of response. “Kitah Zayin,” he said. “In Beis Yitzchak. Reb Shloimeh, we’d like to offer you the position. Ich mein ihr hot asach iber tzu geben.”

***

T

he comprehensive weighing of their options from that winter night just a few months before was now as outdated as engagement pictures after a wedding.

“I don’t know what to think.” Shloimy said. “It sounds… geshmak maybe? I like teaching. But still, I don’t know. Teacher training interests me. Lots of guys do these courses. But it wasn’t on my plans for now. Not courses, not teaching. I still want to learn.”

Tzivi saw the battle as he tried to feel what was right. America beckoned. His learning. Or was something else in order now?

Even as they got headaches trying to absorb the offer, Shloimy realized that last time, his mother-in-law had been terribly upset not to receive the news from Tzivi. “I’m scared your parents will hear about the offer from some neighbors or something,” Shloimy said. “It wouldn’t be right. We better update them.”

Tzivi wasn’t keen on sharing the news.

“If we tell them this came up, they’ll think that we should definitely stay and take it up! They’ll think we’re even crazier.”

But late Tuesday night, they left a young neighbor babysitting and walked over to the Birnbaums. As they walked in, Yaakov Zev joyfully took the baby from Shloimy. “Come to your Zeide, Leah’le.”

Brocha took a log of chocolate cake from the freezer and began to slice it.

Seated at the wooden table with its plastic weekday covering, Tzivi told her parents about the cheder job offer which had come in the middle of their plans to move.

Both of them listened, then started to smile.

“…so, we just wanted to let you know, we’re thinking about everything again,” Tzivi finished, tone heavy.

Her parents looked at each other. There was a silence.

“You’re thinking about it,” Brocha said. “You mean, you might take up this rebbi job?”

“You might stay in Eretz Yisrael?” Yaakov Zev asked.

“Looking into it,” Shloimy said.

“Look, being a rebbi is a shaina zach,” Brocha said. “But, it’s not…”

Her sentence dangled. Yaakov Zev looked at the tablecloth. There were some scribbles which had left a faint mark on the plastic.

Shloimy said “It’s not what, Mommy? A parnassah?”

Brocha coughed. “It’s not, well. It’s not really… we thought your heart was in learning? At least in your American plan you were still going to be in the beis medrash.”

Tzivi covered her mouth and looked from her mother to her husband. Shloimy was leaning forward in his chair.

Suddenly, the conversation was making too much sense in Shloimy’s head, clanging and screeching in his ears like an air-raid siren echoing in the sealed room. He scraped back his chair. “Babysitter, I think,” he handed the cellphone to Tzivi, and she got the message. “Better run. See you, Tatty, Mommy, we’ll be in touch.”

Shloimy breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. Tzivi was silent beside him. The night breeze was refreshing, and the lights of Ramot twinkled in the distance. They walked till they were outside the Beis Yitzchak building which lay in between their neighborhood and his in-laws. “Why didn’t we send our kids here?” he asked Tzivi, abruptly.

“Mishmeres Tzion is a much better cheder,” she said.

“We applied here, remember? Lots of my friends have boys here. It’s a nice, warm, solid place. The rebbis are supposed to be very good. But then your parents said it wasn’t for us, it wasn’t the ‘best of the best’ crowd.”

She was quiet.

Shloimy took a few steps over to a railing. Dark hills below glittered with the lights of Yerushalayim’s outskirts. Its beauty overwhelmed him. Why was it that in Eretz Yisrael the views seemed to go beyond three physical dimensions and put fingers on the soul?

“Why are we going to America?” he asked .

“Because you miss it,” Tzivi said. “Because we decided that a person needs to be in conditions where he can thrive. Because of the menuchas hanefesh you’ll have in your own environment. Because our family belongs where you need to be.”

Shloimy thought of the conclusions they had reached on paper a few months ago which seemed to indicate they needed to build their lives back in the States. That was on paper. But here, out in the Yerushalayim peace, the truth bubbled out strong and clear. How could he leave? Was this not the Land that had called to him, that had opened its arms wide and welcomed Shloimy Weiler in like a long-lost son? Was it not here that he had felt his soul come to life? The air of your land is the life of souls. Would life in America have that indefinable something that called to his soul to rise and not stagnate?

His in-laws’ thoughts had come across loud and clear, whether he had been aware of it or not. Confronted now by the scope of their influence on his life, it became clear to Shloimy why he had felt like making a move.

“Tzivi, I think we should move back …

Her eyes narrowed.

“…back to Eretz Yisrael.”

He saw in the upturn of her lips that she was surprised and pleased.

Shloimy leaned back on the cool metal and drank in the view.

“Tzivi, where in Eretz Yisrael do you think we should settle? Which cheder do you think will suit our children? I think it’s time to start from the beginning.”

(Originally featured in Calligraphy 607, Pesach 5776)