*

Reb Azarya had been right, of course. Dad was in high gear, chef’s hat on his head and a look of deep contentment on his face as he doled a dozen pinwheel steaks doused in Montreal steak spice onto a plastic tray stamped with the New Jersey state outline and the words “Big Apple? Small Potatoes” on it.

“Hey, it’s the Keevesters!” Dad called out cheerily as Akiva bounded up the steps to the back porch.

“Hey Dad, smells amazing. Any sides with this?”

“Fries coming right up. How’d your day go?” Over steak and fries, Akiva described the sudden rainstorm and his unplanned rescue of the seforim. His younger brother, Moishy, bored by the conversation, sulked inside, flopped on the couch and promptly fell asleep. Shira spotted some friends in the neighbor’s backyard.

It was now just Akiva and his parents. “Reb Azarya is real pumped about this new menahel,” he said casually.

“Ah, Barry’s son-in-law,” Dad said knowingly. “I never met him but Barry’s gold, I’d imagine his son-in-law is as well.”

Akiva swallowed. He knew he had to ask what was on his mind.

“Uh, completely unrelated, uh,” he started stammering, and his parents looked at him quizzically. “I was just, y’know, wondering. I was in Reb Azarya’s office. You know the picture of the baby on his desk? The picture of… of….” He took a deep breath. “Yisroel?”

His parents sat still, faces frozen. Akiva plunged forward.

“Yeah, so I was kinda wondering, like, sort of, like I wanted to know, if you could maybe tell me what happened.”

Dad and Mom looked at each other and, simultaneously, let out huge sighs.

“Nothing happened,” Dad said, his voice barely audible.

“Nothing? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dad sighed again. Mom coughed and took over.

“What Dad means to say is that it wasn’t a complicated story in any sense. Yisroel was born just two weeks after you were. Devorah and Azarya were the most loving parents in the world. But six months later….” She drifted off as Dad regained focus.

“As you know, Reb Azarya was my chavrusa, and one day he was called out of first seder,” Dad said. “That’s all we knew. When we went home for bein hasedorim, a few ambulances were still there but it was already over. SIDS….”

Akiva was silent.

“That was really just the beginning,” Dad continued. “Reb Azarya went completely incommunicado for weeks after that.”

“As did Devorah,” Mom added. “She had been everything — head of the N’shei, life of the entire neighborhood — and suddenly, it was as if she had disappeared. I tried knocking, calling, even put a letter in their mailbox. Nothing.”

“And then one night,” Dad absently clasped onto a pair of tongs, “at around nine thirty, we suddenly heard someone hammering on our door. I opened it, and there stood Azarya. He looked disheveled: his shirt was untucked, he had a wild look in his eyes. I tried saying hello but he didn’t let me speak. He grabbed my shoulders and started to yell, ‘We’ll bring Yisroel back! We’ll make Yisroel live again!’ I was so scared, I thought he had completely lost it. But then, as if reading my thoughts, he continued, ‘I’m not crazy. I mean it for real! I’m going to build a yeshivah and I’m going to teach Torah. I’m going to bring so much life into the world — for Yisroel!’”

Dad’s grip on the tongs loosened and Akiva noted how they had made white marks on his hands.

“The next day, Azarya was back in kollel, learning with more vigor than ever. After seder he got right to it, calling philanthropist after philanthropist, setting up meetings and making connections. It was the furthest thing from his comfort zone, but it was as if he was remaking his entire persona for this project.”

“And,” Mom smiled for the first time in the conversation, “that’s when he started his walk.”

“No way!” Akiva exclaimed. “That wasn’t always?”

Dad laughed. “Nope, he used to walk normally.”

Akiva couldn’t believe it — Reb Azarya was the fastest walker on planet Earth. His short legs would take the widest, fastest strides, and he’d clear entire blocks in under a minute.

“It was all part of this new personality,” Dad explained. “He went from being a self-contained high achiever to someone with wild ambitions who would make a major difference in the world.”

“So that’s it?” Akiva asked. “He just raised the money and built the yeshivah?”

“Nah.” Dad shook his head. “He really wasn’t a good fundraiser. His big break was Barry Sittenfeld. Barry had just sold his plumbing supplies business for an undisclosed amount, but rumor had it that it was in the half-billion range. Azarya called him and told him his story and something about it touched Barry’s heart. He agreed to a meeting. I actually went with Azarya. On the spot, Barry committed to paying for the whole building, plus half a million for initial salaries. He even agreed to have the yeshivah named Zichron Yisroel rather than insisting on naming it after one of his parents.”

“Wow,” Akiva breathed, “nice guy.”

“Yes,” Dad nodded. “Extremely generous. Now you understand why it’s only natural that his son-in-law is becoming the menahel.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Akiva said. He considered mentioning how Reb Azarya seemed to be staring intently at Yisroel’s picture earlier that day but decided against it.

And, come to think of it, why should he? Maybe he was imagining things.

Maybe it meant nothing at all.

*

Later that evening, Akiva walked with Dad to Toras Chessed for Minchah. Akiva felt slightly awkward. He had just heard so much about Reb Azarya’s life story — and he knew he’d be seeing Reb Azarya in shul; even during the zeman Reb Azarya davened Minchah in Toras Chessed, where he delivered a Daf Yomi shiur immediately thereafter. As they passed Reb Azarya’s home, the door suddenly flew open and out bounded Devorah — or the rebbetzin — brandishing a spatula.

“Friends! Romans! Countrymen!” she called. “Lend me your appetites!”

Dad winked at Akiva and the two stopped short.

“Now, I know you’ll pull the Minchah card on me,” the rebbetzin said sternly, “but I’m well aware that you’ve got twenty minutes to spare and tasting my just-out-of-the-oven strawberry tarts will take only one of them.”

She ran back into the house and returned with a plate sporting three tarts. “One for you,” she said to Dad, “and two for you,” she said, turning to Akiva.

“Hey!” Dad protested.

“No jealousy on my watch,” the rebbetzin mock-snapped. “Akiva is a growing boy, plus a talmid in the yeshivah. He deserves royal treatment. Now!” she demanded, “on a scale of one to ten, how are they?”

“Twenty-five,” Akiva mumbled through a mouthful of strawberry.

“Oh, you flatter me,” the rebbetzin smiled. “And you know what that gets you? A tall glass of orange juice.”

She disappeared again and returned moments later with two glasses of orange juice, replete with ice, lime slices, and bamboo straws.

Dad and Akiva sipped the cups dry and handed them back to the rebbetzin, thanking her profusely.

“All right, you go on to Minchah now,” she said, “and please tell Azarya to get home quickly before the tarts are demolished by friends and neighbors.”

As Akiva walked alongside Dad, he couldn’t help but wonder how much, if ever, the wisecracks and joviality were a tactic to cover the long-ago pain. When they arrived at the shul, Akiva stole a look at Dad’s face.

It was clear that he was thinking the exact same thing.

*

The moment Akiva entered the building on the first day of the zeman, he noticed the sign.

“One-on-one meetings with Rabbi Langner” it read, followed by a list of names and fifteen-minute time slots. Akiva scanned the sheet and found his slot — ten forty-five a.m. Enough time to get settled before heading to the new menahel’s office.

He had barely placed down his duffel bag in his room before the door swung open and in bounced a thin boy, who spun around, reached for his closet, and produced a bag of gum lollies before the door even had a chance to close.

“Here.” He extended the bag to Akiva. “Want one?”

“Uh, no thanks,” said Akiva. “You must be Yehoshua Baum.”

“Shua. Shuey. Anything but Yehoshua,” the boy said, barely breathing between words.

“I’ll do Shua.”

Akiva carefully took in his new roommate. Shua was thin; his cheeks, spotted with freckles, were sunken in, highlighting his high cheekbones. His hair was an auburn ball of tight steel wool. And he spoke at a million miles an hour.

Akiva sat down on his bed and searched for a topic of conversation.

“Uh, you met with Reb Chaim Zev yet?”

Shua appeared to spin into uncontrollable mode.

“Not yet,” he said, “but everyone’s kuching about him. The guys at Nesivas Chochmah, where he was eleventh-grade maggid shiur last zeman, say he’s poshut rosh yeshivah kav stuff. My slot is eleven thirty. When’s yours?”

“Ten forty-five. Actually, I should be on my way now.”

“Kay-kay, chap arein. I’m telling you, he’s not poshut.”

At Ten forty-five precisely, Akiva tapped lightly on the door, noting that the Menahel sign was made of a shiny copper, unlike Reb Azarya’s faded black plastic.

“Come in!” boomed a loud, enthusiastic voice. Akiva entered, and immediately perceived what rosh yeshivah kav meant. Although Reb Chaim Zev was sitting — on a posh brown leather swivel chair, to be precise — he was clearly a very tall man with broad, imposing shoulders. His beard was short, jet black, and perfectly trimmed, and his wide smile revealed a line of the whitest, straightest teeth Akiva had ever seen outside of a dentist’s advertisement.

Akiva took a seat as Reb Chaim Zev looked at his sheet of names.

“Akiva, is it?” he boomed again, his smile unwavering. Akiva nodded. Reb Chaim Zev leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

“Ah, Akiva. What a beautiful name, what a beautiful connotation. I look to Rabi Akiva as my role model, did you know that?”

Akiva shook his head, wondering why in the world he should know that. Reb Chaim Zev nodded gravely and returned to his leaning-back position.

“Yes, Rabi Akiva. Because he was the great optimist, always seeing the positive — in each person, in each situation. I credit all my hatzlachah to the trait of positivity.”

Akiva sat silently, not sure how to react to the praise heaped upon his name. Reb Chaim Zev then asked more technical questions  — where Akiva had grown up, how many siblings he had — and then looked at his watch.

“Okay Akiva, I feel like we just scratched the surface here,” he said with a broad smile. “I sense so much more. But it’s time for the next meeting. Hatzlachah, and remember — always be positive!”

Akiva nodded numbly and hurried to the door, hoping that the quickened pace would drive away the very queasy feeling his stomach had just developed.

*

After seder the next morning, Akiva headed up the stairs for the first shiur of the zeman. Behind him he could hear footsteps of fellow classmates, and animated chatter.

“Nu, excited?”

“Excited? Pumped out of my daas! His shiur is supposed to be, like, next level!”

“Yeah, what was your meeting like yesterday?”

“Crazy! The guy mamash chaps your techunas hanefesh, like not shayach!” Akiva recognized the speaker to be Shua.

“Hey Baum,” he heard the voice of another classmate, Reuvy Konen. “What about the rosh yeshivah, Reb Azarya; you met him yet?”

“Only at my farher, why?”

Reuvy laughed. “Not Reb Chaim Zev, eh? A shtickel mufkah, no?”

Akiva froze, ready to assume a karate stance and kick Reuvy’s head off.

“Yeah,” Shua responded emphatically, “no shaychus. In the l’maaseh, I hold Reb Chaim Zev is rosh yeshivah, maskim?”

Several boys murmured in agreement. They gathered at the door and Reb Chaim Zev promptly appeared and unlocked it with a flourish, motioning all to enter.

Reb Chaim Zev’s reputation as a masterful maggid shiur was well-justified. The content of his shiur was brilliant and his delivery was crystal clear and loaded with emphasis. He paced as he spoke, sometimes venturing down the aisles and grabbing bochurim’s forearms before letting go and making his way back to his desk. Akiva began to feel guilty about his prior misgivings; the man was clearly an extraordinary lamdan. Who was he to criticize?

Akiva left the shiur with a serious bout of mixed feelings that he wished would go away.

*

Two signs, one in blue, one in green, were displayed on the bulletin board the following day. The blue announced a special Elul vaad given by the rosh yeshivah from one thirty to two o’clock, to be held in the twelfth-grade classroom. The green told of a vaad being given by the menahel from one o’clock to one thirty, to be held in the eleventh-grade classroom. Between the two, the lion’s share of bein hasedorim would be gone. Few boys, Akiva knew, would attend both.

Akiva went downstairs to get a notebook from his locker, passing Shua and Reuvy, who were speaking in hushed tones.

“Hey, guys,” Akiva said. He reached his locker, pulled out his notebook, and headed back upstairs. He noticed it immediately. On the green sign, the word menahel had been crossed off, and the words rosh yeshivah scrawled above it. Akiva burned inside, and without thinking too much about the ethics of it, reached out, tore the sign off the wall, and tossed it in the trash.

He entered the beis medrash, took his seat, and tried to concentrate on his learning. But within moments, he was approached by Reuvy and Shua.

“Don’t think we don’t know who tore off the sign,” Reuvy snarled. “We had a feeling you’d do that. It doesn’t matter — the whole oilam knows about Reb Chaim Zev’s vaad already.”

Akiva sighed, and forced his attention back to the Gemara as they stomped away.

At one twenty-five, Akiva began heading toward his classroom for Reb Azarya’s vaad. On the way, he passed the eleventh-grade classroom, where Reb Chaim Zev’s vaad was still in session.

Akiva gawked. Through the door’s glass window he saw an impossible amount of bochurim jammed in the room. Seats lined the aisles and the back of the room, and some bochurim even stood at the front, clustering around Reb Chaim Zev’s desk. Sitting directly adjacent to Reb Chaim Zev sat Shua, shuckeling vigorously back and forth.

Akiva tore his eyes away and entered the twelfth-grade classroom, which was empty. A few minutes later, Reb Azarya entered, all smiles.

“Akiva! So glad you could make it.” Reb Azarya sat down at the rebbi’s desk, opened his sefer, and swayed lightly. “We’ll wait a little until some of others come,” he said. A few minutes passed. One tenth-grade bochur in a crumpled shirt — having clearly been slept in for some time — sauntered in. Reb Azarya smiled at him.

“Well!” he said cheerily, “let’s begin.” He began to share various thoughts and insights from the Ohr Yechezkel and Akiva did his best to listen. Half an hour passed and Reb Azarya closed the sefer.

“Nu, we should be zocheh to a kesivah v’chasimah tovah,” he said as he stood up to leave.

Akiva left as well, turning right, as Reb Azarya turned left. But after a few paces, Akiva spun around and watched Reb Azarya’s receding back. He blinked, not believing what he was seeing.

Reb Azarya was walking slowly. Very slowly.

*

The following week, the green sign announcing Reb Chaim Zev’s vaad had returned to the bulletin board, while the blue sign did not. At one o’clock Akiva decided to overcome his contentions, be a sport, and attend Reb Chaim Zev’s vaad. He showed up early to get a seat, which was smart, as within minutes, the room was crammed to capacity. Reb Chaim Zev soon entered the room and Akiva had to hold on to his desk to keep from falling as everyone squeezed to the side to let Reb Chaim Zev through. He sat down, deep in thought. Then he began to speak.

“Today, I want to focus on challenges,” he said dramatically. Akiva noted Shua, sitting right next to him, beginning his rapid shuckel.

“We all contend with challenges,” Reb Chaim Zev began slowly, “and being open about these challenges is a first step to overcoming them.” He absently picked up a pen and deftly spun it in his hands. “I’d now like to speak openly about one of the greatest challenges I’ve endured.”

All were silent, waiting with baited breath.

“I was in second year beis medrash and was learning well. But then, out of nowhere, my chavrusa dropped me. He felt that my mehalech halimud wasn’t for him. I was so crushed, so lonely.” Reb Chaim Zev paused for a moment, his face filled with anguish. Then, he banged on his desk. Everyone jumped. “But you know what happened?! After a week of this suffering, the rosh yeshivah called me into his office and said, ‘I see you have no chavrusa — how about you learn with me?’

“Yes!” cried Reb Chaim Zev. “That’s what happened. And you know what this taught me? That specifically from the darkness comes the greatest light. Had my chavrusa not left me, I would never have had the zechus to learn with the rosh yeshivah.”

The vaad continued, with Akiva gasping for air in the stuffy room. And when it was over, he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry over the heartrending episode of a chavrusa being replaced by a rosh yeshivah.

*

Elul zeman ended and the Yamim Noraim brought their annual solemnity; Yom Kippur came and went and the zeman was officially over. For the past several years Akiva and his younger brother Moishy had made it a habit to help build Reb Azarya’s succah. Reb Azarya would always wear an oversized, old, green sweater and would schlep out a colossal disc player, which played old Carlebach songs while they worked determinedly.

About a half-hour in, the rebbetzin would appear with a huge pan in hand. “Azarya,” she’d scream over the din, “let them eat cake!” Then the three of them would break for a quick chow-down before continuing.

The morning after Yom Kippur, Moishy was still at Shacharis when Akiva headed over to Reb Azarya’s home. It was the first time Akiva had been inside since he had learned about Yisroel and he jumped when he noted the large portrait hanging in the foyer, displaying an adorable baby who seemed to be just about six months old. Memories of the conversation with his parents began filtering into his mind but a moment later, the door to Reb Azarya’s study opened.

“Oh hello, Akiva!” he said brightly. “What brings you here to— oh, the succah. Yes, thanks so much for stopping by. I’ll go open the garage. You can meet me in the back.”

Akiva walked toward the back of the house, through the kitchen, and it was there that he spotted the rebbetzin, sitting at the head of the table. She seemed deep in thought and Akiva waited a moment for her to notice him. She didn’t.

“Hi, Rebbetzin!” he called out. “If you build it they will come, eh?” This was the rebbetzin’s annual quip upon the succah’s completion; Akiva paused and waited for the familiar laughter. It came — a moment too late, and a bit too weak.

The disc player was brought out and Calebach’s “L’maan Achai” streamed through the speakers.

It was only upon completing the succah that Akiva realized that the rebbetzin hadn’t brought out cake. As he walked through the kitchen, he saw her, still sitting at the table, staring into space.

“Oh, Akiva, Moishy,” she smiled weakly. “Thanks so much. There are rugelach in the fridge.”

Akiva thanked her, and walked home holding a bag of cold rugelach.

*

The yeshivah’s hakafos, led by Reb Azarya, made for Akiva’s most beautiful childhood memories. The moment the aron kodesh opened, it was as if Reb Azarya’s entire being transformed into something otherworldly. He wasn’t a great dancer — his dance was something like a gallop and the people directly next to him would laugh as they tried to keep up with his off-beat rhythm — but he didn’t notice because his eyes were shut tight. His hat slid down his sweaty forehead as he galloped around and around, not stopping until the singing died.

All the while, the rebbetzin stood by the mechitzah, glowing with so much pride.

Every year, after the fifth hakafah, Reb Azarya would stand on a chair and speak. With his eyes shut tight he would speak about Torah and achdus and how the dancing of Simchas Torah brings both of these forces together.

Then came the sixth hakafah, after which it was the rebbetzin’s time to shine. The bochurim all made Kiddush over some store-bought crackers and salami and then they opened a huge cardboard box, jammed with what Akiva knew must be the largest peach pie in the world. The rebbetzin would stand to the side, beaming.

This year, when the aron opened, Akiva watched carefully and his heart leaped as Reb Azarya’s eyes shut tight, and his small body began to jump, spring, and gallop, fueled by the energy of the Torah he loved so deeply.

Akiva’s eyes turned to the mechitzah, and there he saw the rebbetzin with that same glow on her face he recognized from all his years as a kid. Maybe the perceived gloom really had been his imagination, Akiva thought, gathering vigor as he danced. Maybe everything was all right. Watching Reb Azarya dance definitely made it seem so.

The fifth hakafah ended. Usually, before Reb Azarya would rise to speak, one bochur was honored with a special round of “Mipi Keil.” He, too, would stand on a chair and usually, but not always, assume a Sephardi accent as he began “Ein adir kaHashem” to which everyone would shout  “Hei!” in response.

Akiva wondered who the chosen bochur would be before noticing a tumult around Reb Chaim Zev. Shua, along with Reuvy, had grabbed Reb Chaim Zev by the hands and were schlepping him into the middle of the circle, where a chair sat waiting. Reb Chaim Zev dragged his feet in a show of protest which Akiva strongly suspected was feigned. Shua and Reuvy hoisted Reb Chaim Zev on the chair, threw a tallis over his shoulders, and handed him a machzor. His tall figure loomed more dominant than ever as the bochurim converged in an ever-tightening circle around him.

“Eeeeeiiiiin Adir KaHashem!” Reb Chaim Zev began and the responding “Hei!” shook the rafters.

“Eeeeiiin baruch k’ben Amram!”

“Hei!”

“Eeeeiiiin….” Suddenly, the chanting was interrupted by a commotion. Reuvy and Shua were schlepping another chair into the circle, which they placed directly beside Reb Chaim Zev’s. Necks craned to see what was going on and a giggle went up as Shua stood upon the chair, stretched his arm over Reb Chaim Zev’s shoulders and screamed out, “Eeeeeiiiin LAMDAN k’Reb Chaim Zev!”

There was a roar of appreciative laughter as a hundred bochurim strong leaped into the air and shouted “Hei!”

“Eeeeeiiin MASMID k’Reb Chaim Zev!”

“Hei!”

“Eeeeiiin….” Shua paused to think of another accolade, then shut his eyes.

“Eeeeiiiiin MENAHEL k’Reb Chaim Zev!”

The whole yeshivah shouted “Hei” but then Reuvy shouted out:

“Eeeeiiiin ROSH YESHIVAH k’Reb Chaim Zev!”

There was tittering and plenty of looks of disapproval as well. Calling Reb Chaim Zev “rosh yeshivah” in public was crossing a red line. But the moment passed, and soon both Shua and Reb Chaim Zev descended from their chairs, and all turned to Reb Azarya expectantly. Reb Azarya was leaning against a wall, a light smile on his face.

“Oh no.” He smiled pleasantly and pointed to his watch. “The hour is late. We can continue dancing without my speech.”

The bochurim shrugged and proceeded on to the next hakafah. But Akiva held back and watched Reb Azarya carefully. His smile had slid off his face and Akiva followed his gaze. He was looking across the room and locked eyes with the rebbetzin. Then he gave a short nod and slipped out of the beis medrash; Akiva turned to watch as the rebbetzin did the same.

The dancing was growing loud and spirited but Akiva barely heard any of it. He ran to the window and looked outside. Through the dark he could see the two silhouettes of Reb Azarya and the rebbetzin, who was teetering under the weight of a very familiar looking, large cardboard box.

Together they walked, shoulders sagging, but heads held high.

Slowly. They were walking so slowly.

*

Succos was over, the zeman hadn’t yet begun, and Akiva was taking a walk in the crisp fall air when his stomach lurched.  It took him a minute to process why the red, white and blue colors swirling before him were eliciting such a wretched reaction.

Remax. His subconscious mind picked up on it before his powers of logic did. For Sale.

The sign stood there innocently, and Akiva’s first impulse was to simply walk over and kick it so hard that it would land in the creek at the bottom of the woods behind the yeshivah. But common sense returned, and rather than do anything crazy, he spun up the walkway and knocked on the door. It opened immediately, as if Reb Azarya had been waiting for him.

“Come in, Akiva,” he said softly.

Reb Azarya led him into his study and sat down at his desk, motioning for Akiva to sit down as well. There they sat for over a minute in utter silence, neither looking at the other directly. And when Reb Azarya spoke, his eyes were focused on the picture frame at the corner of his desk, identical to the one in his office in yeshivah.

“Akiva,” he said, quietly. “I’m guessing this is about the sign outside. No need to worry. Devorah and I have always talked about moving to Eretz Yisrael. We feel that now is the right time.”

Akiva opened his mouth to speak — he wasn’t going to accept that. Reb Azarya wasn’t being honest now and Akiva would let him know that. But before he could say anything, Reb Azarya began to speak again.

“I have a friend who runs a yeshivah in Har Nof and he’s willing to let me say a shiur there.”

And then his eyes closed for a long time and, when they opened, they were once again staring directly at the picture frame.

“It will be better for my family there,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Reb Azarya fell silent, his eyes fixed on the picture. Akiva rose and stood there for a moment. He swallowed.

“Okay, rosh yeshivah,” he said, his voice faltering, “I— I understand, I guess.”

Reb Azarya barely nodded.

Akiva slipped outside the study and out the front door, blinking away the incessant sting in his eyes.

*

It was a chilly evening three days into the new zeman.  Akiva was doing his best to remain focused on his learning, and had finally retired for the night. A moment later, the door swung open and in whisked Shua. He reached up to his closet, grabbed a gum lolly and jammed it in his mouth before placing a shopping bag on the desk.

“Hey,” said Akiva with mild curiosity. “Is that rugelach in the bag? What for?”

Shua shrugged. “Mother’s yahrtzeit tonight. Figured I’ll shtel for the oilam.”

“Wow.” Akiva tried sounding polite. “So, like, you’re making a siyum type of thing?”

Shua let out a guffaw.

“Siyum?” he said. “What do I gain from a siyum? Stam to daven up a masechta? You wanna know what’s a real zechus for the neshamah? Hondling with Reb Chaim Zev in learning, that’s what. Actually,” he said, crunching the remains of his lolly and gulping them down, “I’m gonna go chap him now. He should be walking home soon. I have a geshmake diyuk in Rashi, mamash like what he shtelled in shiur today.”

Shua ran out of the room and Akiva sighed, having long abandoned any attempt to understand his roommate. He lay down, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

A sharp wind blowing through the open window woke Akiva with a start. Still half asleep, he reached up and slammed the window shut, then tried to fall back asleep. But he had a funny feeling that something was wrong. What? Akiva squinted around the room, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark. It was then that he realized.

Shua’s bed was empty.

Akiva tried to shake off the concern. Shua was a grown boy; he could take care of himself. But on the other hand, it was three thirty a.m. This was truly strange.

Unable to fall back asleep, he went to check out the dormitory’s lounge — it was empty. Akiva ran down to the beis medrash. Dark. Empty. Heart pounding, he tried to come up with a plan. Wait — Reb Chaim Zev! Hadn’t Shua mentioned his plan to walk Reb Chaim Zev home? Could he still be there?

Akiva walked quickly back to his room, grabbed a flashlight from his desk drawer, threw on a sweater, and headed outside. He was hit by a blast of cold air but shook it off as he walked quickly toward Reb Chaim Zev’s house. He tried to convince himself that there he would find Shua and Reb Chaim Zev, still engaged in a heated conversation about the diyuk in Rashi. But the lights were off at the Langner residence. All was silent.

Akiva’s heart began to hammer. He’d have to tell Reb Azarya that Shua was missing. He glanced at his watch. It was four a.m. Too bad. Reb Azarya rose every day at five a.m. sharp to prepare the daf. Akiva would have to wake him up.

He was about to head in that direction when a thought occurred to him. There was one place he hadn’t checked yet.

The woods. Behind the yeshivah.

If he weren’t so scared, Akiva would have felt charged by the adventure of the moment as he stepped over logs and pushed away shrubbery. He was now in the clearing and he shone his light downward — and froze.

There was Shua. Sitting at the edge of the stream, his back to Akiva. Akiva walked slowly down the hill, cautious not to make any noise. What was Shua doing? Akiva edged closer yet. Shua was in a hunched-over position, bent over something that he was holding in his hand.

Akiva approached steadily and, as he grew near, he watched as Shua’s back stiffened and he shoved whatever it was into his pocket. Akiva kept walking until he stood directly next to Shua. Shua remained absolutely still, except for his arm, which pushed deeper into his pocket. Whatever was in there, Shua was clenching it with all his might.

Akiva’s mind raced. What could it possibly be? A smartphone? Was Shua breaking the yehivah’s strongest rule? Akiva suddenly felt a rush of determination — he was done being Mr. Nice Guy.

“Shua,” he said firmly. “Give it to me.”

Shua’s eyes were shut tight — he made no move in response.

“Shua,” Akiva repeated, his voice rising, “give it to me right now.”

Still no response. Maybe it was the buildup of annoyance from his roommate, or maybe it was the fact that it was near dawn and he was standing in his pajamas, but Akiva lost it. He reached into Shua’s pocket and, with all his strength, wrested the item from the clenched fist. He raised it to eye level and shone his flashlight on it.

It wasn’t a phone.

It was a plastic picture frame encasing a six-inch photo. The image glimmering in his flashlight’s beam revealed a boy with round cheeks and short auburn hair just barely visible beneath a spanking new Borsalino. Akiva knew, but couldn’t quite believe, that this was Shua. Directly facing him was a woman with whom he shared markedly similar features, dressed in her finest. She seemed to be scratching something off the lapel of his jacket and both were laughing at each other.

Akiva held the plastic frame numbly in his hand when he suddenly realized that Shua was saying something.

“Sorry, what?”

Shua repeated it and Akiva still couldn’t hear. He lowered himself to the ground and sat beside Shua, waiting for him to repeat what he’d said.

“Give it back.”

Akiva dropped the picture on Shua’s lap and fell silent. The creek was gurgling and somewhere far off, an owl let out a high-pitched whine.

“Shua,” Akiva barely whispered, “talk to me.”

Shua toyed with the frame in his hand. Still looking down, he took a deep breath.

“She was already popping Tums like they were candy then,” he said blandly. “The nutritionist said it was the carbs — gotta cut back on the carbs.”

Akiva had no idea what he was talking about.

“I remember ’cuz she called the rav to ask if it was okay for her not to wash at her son’s bar mitzvah.” Shua looked into the picture and smiled. “That’s the way she was, always wanting to do the right thing.”

Akiva turned away slightly so as to hide his confusion. What was Shua getting at?

“’Bout two weeks later, the food wasn’t going down at all. Ta couldn’t take it anymore. He schlepped her to a gastroenterologist. The guy took one look and sent her for an MRI. Stage four. They gave her eleven months to live.”

Finally, Akiva understood.

“Eleven months later she was still hanging on. She told me that she loves me more than the cancer hates her.” Shua smiled wryly. “But I guess she didn’t love me that much, ’cuz five months after that, it was over.”

“Shua!” Akiva said sharply, surprising himself. “Don’t say that! Of course she loved you, it’s just that—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shua said, “I know the drill. Chizuk, sympathy, pats on the back. Been there, done that, swallowed it whole and choked on it, too.”

Akiva was confounded and Shua must have sensed this.

“DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?” he exploded. “YOU THINK I BELIEVE IN ALL THIS?”

Akiva shrank back and Shua’s voice softened. “No offense, buddy, I’ve just had it, that’s all. I bounced around after Mommy was gone. Went through two different yeshivos already. I’m smart, so I did okay, but my therapist decided that what I need in life is a good rebbi and suggested that I join this yeshivah because his friend, Reb Chaim Zev Langner, would be the best rebbi in the world for me.”

“But,” Akiva interrupted, “he was right, no? Like, you’re super close to him, aren’t you?”

Shua let out a cackle that sounded positively scary. “Close with him? Nope. Not in the slightest.”

“But,” Akiva sputtered, “you’re always, you know, front and center, super involved, talking to him. Remember Simchas Torah? You were like, totally psyched about him.”

Shua let out a terrible sigh.

“Listen to me. I tried. What the therapist said was true — I needed a rebbi. My father has been a mess since Mommy died, and for me to survive, I would need a rebbi. A real rebbi who truly understood my pain. I came to yeshivah and saw all the hype around Reb Chaim Zev and figured that I’d play along.

“Remember those meetings he had with the guys on the first day? So I showed up and started pouring out my heart. And you know what he did? He did that thing where he grabs your forearm and he says ‘Shua, Shua.’”

Akiva hid his smile at the imitation.

“‘Shua, Shua, in the very first pesukim of the Torah we learn the secret to dealing with our pain. Vayavdel Elokim bein ha’ohr u’vein hachoshech, Hashem divided between the light and the darkness. The key to escaping pain, my dear Shua, is one word: Com-part-men-ta-li-za-tion.’”

Akiva let out an involuntary snicker. Shua paused to collect his breath. “Anyway, I chapped right away that this wasn’t going to work. Reb Chaim Zev may have a brilliant mind, but his problem is that he never actually lived. He floated through life; the things he thinks are challenges are just mild annoyances. There was no way he could help me.”

Shua let out a huff before continuing.

“But I wasn’t willing to give up so fast. I can’t explain how I did this, but somehow I convinced myself that if I really throw myself into the relationship, if I give it all that I got, then somehow, something real could develop. And so that’s what I did. I threw myself into it, all the way, hoping I could make it work. But deep down, I knew it was dead in the water.”

Akiva stared at his roommate, noting that as he spoke, the nervous fidgets were no longer; his sentences were full, his speech was slower.

“Anyway, I guess I allowed my brain to play tricks on me for a while, but tonight was the yahrtzeit and I just couldn’t take it anymore. I needed time to be with myself, my real self. And,” he looked down at the picture, “with my mother.”

Suddenly, Shua turned toward Akiva with a desperate expression on his face. “Remember when you asked if I’m making a siyum?” Akiva nodded. “I said no, I made up a bubba maaseh about how hondling with Reb Chaim Zev was a greater zechus for the neshamah. Did you believe that?”

Akiva shrugged. “I had no reason not to,” he said carefully.

Shua shook his head.

“I tried. I really tried,” he said. “I wanted so badly to make a siyum. But learning every day for Mommy meant having to think of her every day. I took Maseches Makkos, it has only twenty-three blatt. It was torture but I kept at it for a while. I made it to daf yud and then gave up. It was too much.”

Shua picked up a rock and chucked it into the creek.

“Another question for you,” he said. “It’s my mother’s yahrtzeit. Did you notice that I didn’t daven for the amud in yeshivah?”

Akiva shook his head. “I— I didn’t think of that,” he admitted. “I mean, I only found out about the yahrtzeit after Maariv.”

Shua wasn’t listening.

“I davened at the nine o’clock Maariv minyan in Toras Chaim. You know why? Because I was afraid my voice would crack when I said Kaddish. Actually, I knew it would. I couldn’t have the guys hear that. And the last thing I need is Reb Chaim Zev putting his arm around my shoulder and telling me how tears are the bridge between souls or something like that.”

Shua fell silent now and Akiva had nothing to say. The creek gave a little hiccup; a small splash indicated a fish negotiating its way up the current.

“Listen,” Shua said at last. “I know I wasn’t fun to have around. I guess, I’ll say, y’know, thanks. It was nice to have you as a roommate.”

“Shua!” Akiva exclaimed. “What do you mean? We’re still roommates!”

Shua shook his head sadly. “Nah. It’s over. I’m leaving. I can’t take this anymore. I have to face the fact that I’m at a place in life that no one in this yeshivah can relate to. It’s not fun being the only one in the room during Yizkor. I’m leaving, I’ll go home and lie low for a while. Maybe things will pick up. Maybe they won’t. Who knows?”

Akiva stared at the creek, willing his brain to think, whispering to Hashem that He send him the right words.

“Shua,” he said, “you mentioned being the only one in the room during Yizkor. Is that right?”

Shua looked confused. “Sure, of course I was, who else would—”

“Shua!” Akiva said sharply. “Think back. Were you the only one in the room during Yizkor?”

Shua creased his eyebrows. Then he placed his head in his hands. When he finally looked up, Akiva could see that, for the first time, he had tears in his eyes.

“So what should I do?” he asked hoarsely.

Akiva looked at his watch. It was five fifteen. He stood up, brushed himself off and held out his hand.

“Come,” he said, hauling Shua to his feet. “Allow me to make the introduction.”

*

Akiva stumbled into his room just as the full weight of exhaustion began to hit. He’d been running on adrenaline for the past few hours but now it was catching up to him. With only a slight stab of guilt, he pulled his tefillin out of his closet and began wrapping them around his arm. There was no way he was making it until Shacharis. After davening, he lay down, and within seconds fell into a deep slumber.

When he woke up, he looked at the clock and jumped in horror when he saw that it was one fifteen — he had slept straight through first seder! He leaped out of bed and noted Shua sleeping deeply, an expression of peace on his features the likes of which Akiva had never seen on him before.

Minchah was at two p.m. and Shua would need to daven for the amud. Akiva bent over the night table and checked Shua’s alarm clock — it was set for one forty-five. Good.

Akiva decided to take a walk before Minchah; it would give him some time and space to think about what had happened last night. The last he had seen of Shua was when they knocked on Reb Azarya’s door. Reb Azarya had answered immediately, fully dressed, with a look of alarm on his face. Then he looked at Shua carefully and said, “Ah, the yahrtzeit, I presume.” He then invited Shua inside while politely motioning to Akiva to head back to yeshivah.

How long had they spoken? How much did they speak about? Akiva had no idea.

Now he stopped short. Something was off. Something was different. He shifted his mind from the night’s events and paid attention to his surroundings. He was on his block, standing right past Reb Azarya’s house. What was wrong? And then it hit him. The For Sale sign. It was gone!

Akiva pounded down the walkway, leaped up the stairs and banged on the door. Within moments it swung open. There stood the rebbetzin, brandishing her spatula.

“Ah, the royal pie-tester has arrived,” she said in a mock British accent. “And not a moment too soon.” Pointing the spatula threateningly at Akiva, she switched back to American dialect. “Listen here, young man. There’s a siyum tonight and a big pie in the works and I’ve got a fear that I put too much brown sugar in the filling. And so you, sir, will head right on to the culinary quarters for some royal testing.”

Akiva grinned and nodded. “Sure, rebbetzin.”

“Excellent!” The rebbetzin beamed. “So shall it be written, so shall it be done.” She herded Akiva into the kitchen where he was met by a mountain of peach mush. Hand on hip, the rebbetzin waited as he made a brachah and took a spoonful.

“Awesome!” he flashed a thumbs up. “Ya nailed it, rebbetzin.”

She flushed with pride and went to open the fridge.

“Okay, now, what else to please the taste buds of those oh-so-sophisticated males,” she said to herself. “Ah, yes, franks-in-blanks. That’ll do it.” She pulled hotdogs and puff pastry out of the fridge and began spreading them out on the counter.

“Wait, rebbetzin. This is for a siyum?” Akiva asked. “What siyum?”

The rebbetzin opened a drawer and pulled out two knives. “Details, details,” she mumbled with feigned exasperation. “All you men care about is the details.”

She looked up. “No idea,” she said cheerily. “Go ask Azarya. That’s his department.”

Akiva went to Reb Azarya’s study and knocked lightly on the door before pushing it open.

“Akiva!” Reb Azarya called out. He was smiling.

“Uh, rosh yeshivah, I noticed the For Sale sign….”

“Yes, yes, I assumed that’s what brought you here.” Reb Azarya fell silent, his eyes traveling to the picture at the corner of the desk. A full minute passed before he looked back at Akiva.

“I guess I should say thank you, Akiva. We still hope to move to Eretz Yisrael one day, but for now, I think… I think we can make this work.” He cleared his throat. “If I can help a talmid, even one, it’s enough for me. And for Devorah.” He swallowed, his eyes flicking to the photograph of Yisroel.

A few moments passed, moments which Akiva knew he’d treasure forever — he had never felt so happy in his entire life. Then he remembered what brought him to the study in the first place.

“The rebbetzin mentioned something about a siyum? Is the Daf finishing a masechta or something?” Reb Azarya got a strange look on his face and looked downward. It was then that Akiva took note of the Gemara that lay open before him. Makkos, the final daf.

“Wait, rosh yeshivah, you didn’t…. No way.”

Reb Azarya shrugged humbly. “I would never want a talmid to go through a parent’s yahrtzeit without a siyum,” he said simply.

“So…” Akiva sputtered, “you mean, uh, the rosh yeshivah means, that he picked up from where Shua left off?! Over a dozen blatt in a few hours?!”

Reb Azarya shrugged again. “I guess you can say I know it well.”

He glanced at his watch and jumped to his feet. He ran to his closet, grabbed his hat and jacket, and headed to the door.

“Sorry to cut this short, Akiva,” he said. “Minchah in yeshivah will be starting soon and I must be there on time.”

Akiva stared at him. “Minchah? In yeshivah? But the rosh yeshivah always davens at Toras Chaim!”

Reb Azarya was already at the front door, hand on the knob. He turned around to face Akiva.

“Ah yes. Very true. But today, a talmid in our yeshivah is reciting Kaddish for his mother and my understanding is that it’s difficult for him.” His gaze shifted slightly above Akiva’s shoulders, settling on the portrait hanging in the foyer.

“I figured that, if I say it together with him, it will ease things considerably.”

And with that, he flung open the door and strode swiftly outside.

Akiva too, bolted out the door, racing as fast as he could to keep up with his rosh yeshivah’s pace.  

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1033)