“Dad! We got a surprise visitor!”

At arrivals, I hung back awkwardly as Andy rushed forward to greet a large man wearing jeans and a cowboy hat. “This is Yicky,” he said, pulling me forward. “I told him he can come stay with us for a while.”

His father raised his eyebrows as he looked me up and down. “What kind of parent names their son Yicky?” he said suspiciously.

I opened my mouth to explain, but Andy beat me to it. “Dad, it’s a Jewish name! Don’t go showin’ your ignorance in front of Yicky — he’s real religious. He learns in a Talmudical school in Israel.”

“Oh, yeah?” Somehow, I didn’t get the impression that Andy’s dad found this impressive, but he shrugged his wide shoulders and motioned silently for me to get into his car.

“So, a Talmudical school, eh?” said Mr. Levi (he pronounced it like the jeans), when we had arrived at the ranch and sat down in the kitchen for a drink. I looked around. I had never seen anything quite so large. Everything here was done on a big scale, even the kitchen chairs, from which my feet barely touched the floor.

“Um, yes, it’s called a yeshivah. No, thank you,” I added hurriedly, as the housekeeper offered me a piece of cake. I made a mental note to try to get over to a grocery store as soon as possible.

“You’re Orthodox, hmm?” His brows were furrowed.

“Well, yes,” I answered, somewhat discomfited by his coldness. I wasn’t having a good feeling about this trip.

“And you study in Israel?”

I nodded.

He glared. “So what are ya doin’ out here in the heart of Texas?”

Good question. I fumbled for the brochure and letters in my jacket pocket, hoping no one wouldn’t notice my shaking hands. “Um, you see,” I began, taking a quivering breath, and glancing at Andy, who gave me an exaggerated thumbs-up sign. “I’ve been sent by my yeshivah to raise some money. Here you can see some pictures of our school. It’s in a beautiful location, right in the middle of Jerusalem. And here are some of the young men learning Talmud. This is the Rosh Yeshivah — um, the head of the yeshivah. And—”

Mr. Levi sat there stone-faced.

“And, um, we stand for hard work and individualism, and sweat and … and grunts —”

I tried to remember all the things Andy had told me on the plane. “We take in all boys, regardless of background, because we — um — feel that every Jew has a place in yeshivah and uh … ” I tailed off.

He gazed at me for what seemed like ages. “Every Jew has a place in yeshivah, eh?” He pushed his cowboy hat low down over his eyes, menacingly. “Is that what you’ve been trying to convince this son of mine? Because I ain’t gonna stand for no proselytizin’ in my house, ya hear?”

“No, no,” I said, laughing in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. “We’re not interested in your son coming to yeshivah. All we’re asking for is some money.”

But Mr. Levi still looked at me suspiciously. “Listen, sonny,” he said. “If you need food and a place to sleep, you’re welcome to stay here, but I’ll have no yeshivah talk in my house. It’s bad enough Andy got mixed up with Rabbi Jake over at the temple and flyin’ off to Israel. Next thing I know, my boy’s gonna have me makin’ a Passover Seder.”

“You don’t make a Passover Seder?” I should have picked up on the cues and kept my mouth shut, but the words surprised themselves out of me. “I thought all Jews —”

“I suspect what you know about what all Jews are doin’ would fit on a postage stamp,” Mr. Levi snarled.

I beat a retreat. My first attempt at fundraising had been a resounding failure. As I left the kitchen, I heard Mr. Levi muttering to his son, “Comes into my house and asks for money. All those Orthodox Jews are alike.”

Ouch. I wondered how quickly I’d be able to get out of Texas.

The next morning was no better. Mr. Levi accidentally stumbled into my room as I was putting on tefillin, and the scowl he gave me was followed by a snide comment at breakfast about “narrow-minded Orthodox Jews who are still living in the Dark Ages.”

Now, if anyone was being narrow-minded here, it wasn’t me, and I had half a mind to retort back to him, but a quick calculation of his size versus my size, plus who had home court advantage here, made me check myself. Still, Mr. Levi didn’t seem to want to let the subject drop. Later that day, when Andy, thinking he was doing me a favor, brought up once again the fact that I was looking for donations and maybe he wouldn’t mind … his father turned to him and thundered, “I will never donate to any Orthodox institution!”

Well. That was unambiguous.

Throwing caution to the wind, I asked, “What do you have against Orthodox institutions, Mr. Levi?”

“What do I have against them?” he growled. He looked up from his computer screen, and turned to face me. “I’ll tell you what. Some years ago, I had a business partner who was an Orthodox Jew. Ate kosher, kept Sabbath, prayed three times a day like you. Was always quoting the Talmud at me.” He glared at me. “He quoted the Talmud all the way to jail. Turned out, the fellow was a crook. He swindled me out of most of my savings, taking my business investment and using it for his own gains. If you want a donation to your yeshivah, go ask Hirschman. He was let out on parole, probably still studying your precious Talmud, and meanwhile, I haven’t seen a cent of my money back.”

He turned back to his computer while I sat there, mouth open. There was nothing to say, absolutely nothing.

***

I borrowed Andy’s pick-up truck and drove to the nearest frum community to stock up on food and do some collecting. It took several hours to get to Dallas, but I needed to feel that my trip here to Texas wasn’t a total waste, and, to my surprise, despite my stuttering and phumfering, I managed to raise a respectable amount.

I stopped at the shul for Minchah and Maariv, and afterward the rabbi came over to me.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said, smiling warmly. He was youngish with a short brown beard, exactly my idea — had I thought about it — of what an out-of-town rabbi should look like. Pleasant, open, welcoming.

“What brings you to our community?” he asked.

Self-consciously, suddenly wondering if I had violated procedures by not clearing myself with the rabbi first, I told him I was collecting for my yeshivah in Israel.

He nodded. “What yeshivah is this?” he asked. I showed him the brochure and the letter from the Rosh Yeshivah.

“Rav Saltzburger? Sure, I know him,” said the rabbi. “A real talmid chacham. And what are the bochurim like?”

“Oh, they’re all serious learners. Lots of masmidim,” I assured him quickly. “You see guys learning in the beis medrash at all hours of the night.”

The rabbi smiled. “It’s nice to hear of hasmadah,” he said, drumming his fingers on the walnut pew, “but I want to know about passion. Are the bochurim on fire?”

I blushed. “Yeah, some of them are.”

How had he found me out? Did I have the word “uninspired” flashing on my forehead?

And then, because the question was eating me up, and because he seemed so warm and accepting, and because I had pretty much already squeezed out whatever money I could hope to get from this community anyway, I asked him, “What would you say to a yungerman who’s finding that he’s — uh — lost his fire? Would you say it’s time to leave yeshivah and go into accounting or something?”

The rabbi looked at me hard. I never found out his name, but I still remember the words he said to me that night. “Whether it’s time to leave yeshivah and move into the world of parnassah is a practical question, and I don’t know you well enough to answer it. But if you’ve lost your fire, then you need to regain it.” He looked around his small, half-empty shul. “There’s a war going on out there, the fires of assimilation are raging. We need to fight fire with fire.” He wagged his finger at me as he spoke, then wished me hatzlachah, and turned to the man sitting on my left.

“Hello, Mr. Wagner, glad to see you in shul tonight. Does this mean your sciatica is better?”

The whole long drive back, my thoughts kept colliding into themselves. All these ideas and impressions jumbled in my mind — about me leaving yeshivah, and Mr. Levi not wanting to have anything to do with Judaism, and Hirschman’s chillul Hashem, and the impact of one person. I was so befuddled that even after parking Andy’s truck in the five-car driveway, I wasn’t ready to head back into the house, so I decided to take a walk around the ranch. I didn’t remember how many acres Andy told me his dad’s place was, but I knew I could fit my entire neighborhood in it.

It was late, and I discovered that the grounds on the ranch were not very well lit. After I’d wandered up and down paths, I began to hear some strange animal noises. No doubt these noises were as ordinary as the sound of garbage trucks at night in Manhattan, but I’m a city boy through and through, and I won’t pretend I didn’t start to panic. I pictured coyotes and wolves and cougars, all gathered in a circle, ready to pounce. And whether this was true or not, I didn’t know, but I wasn’t going to hang around to find out.

Walking quickly at first, then breaking into a run, I headed in the direction of the points of light in the distance, which I assumed were coming from the house. The noises were getting closer. Sure that this was the end, I stumbled upon a small wooden shack. I wrenched open the door, jumped in, and slammed the door shut.

There. I was barricaded inside. The wolves wouldn’t be able to break open the door, would they? I searched desperately in my mind for any tidbits I knew about wild animal behavior, but all that kept popping up was “I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow the house in,” and that didn’t make me feel any calmer.

I wondered if there was any light in this shack, and groping around on the wall, found a light switch. I turned it on — and nearly had a heart attack. There were rows upon rows of cows, all standing in open wooden stalls, all looking straight at me.

I gasped, screamed, and ran out the door, racing as fast as my legs could carry me to the house. I didn’t know if a person could outrun a wolf (though I was pretty certain I could outrun a cow), but I was sure going to try my hardest. I gasped for breath, but I didn’t stop running until I reached the front door. Grasping the door handle, I let myself in, bolting it firmly behind me. Home. Safe.

When I came down for breakfast the next morning, Andy was already sitting at the table. As I took out my cornflakes and plastic bowl, I asked him casually if he’d heard the wolves last night.

“Wolves?” He looked confused. “There ain’t any wolves around here, Yicky. Do you mean the owls?”

I decided to drop the subject.

Just then, the front door opened with a bang. Mr. Levi stamped inside.

“What’s wrong?” asked Andy after taking one look at his father’s face.

“Someone let the cows loose last night,” he fumed, as he sat down at the kitchen table and grabbed a roll. “Probably some punk teenager’s idea of a prank. Took us past three hours to round them all up. Millie got herself caught in the wire fence and has cuts and scratches all over.” He angrily tore off a piece of bread with his teeth.

My heart stopped beating.

“Just wait ‘til I catch the kid who did this,” Mr. Levi muttered.

I took a deep breath. “I … uh, I think it was me.”

Andy and his dad stared.

“I’m really sorry. I ran in there last night by mistake, and I, well, left in a hurry, and I guess I forgot to close the door, and, uh, I think I’ll just go upstairs now and pack my suitcases, shall I?” I jumped up as I said it and scurried out of the room, not interested in waiting for the explosion.

Score one more chillul Hashem by an Orthodox Jew, I thought as I threw my clothing into the suitcase and called to book a ticket back to New York, ASAP. I toyed with the idea of sneaking out of the house, but decided that would only make things worse. So I took a deep breath and walked into the den. “Mr. Levi … Andy … I just wanted to thank you for the hospitality you’ve shown me.”

“Leaving so soon?” asked Mr. Levi. “Sorry to hear that, son.”

I looked at him in amazement. He stood up and walked over to me, grabbing my hand to shake it. When he let go, I saw there was a folded check inside.

“You came here to collect money for your yeshivah,” he said. “I didn’t want you to leave empty-handed.”

“But — I thought — no Orthodox institutions—” I stammered.

Mr. Levi put a large hand on my shoulder. “I like a man who knows how to admit when he’s at fault. Problem with Hirschman was, he didn’t know how to take the blame. I’m glad to know there are some Orthodox Jews out there with moral backbone.”

The whole ride to the airport I thought of all those Hashgachah pratis stories you hear about yeshivahs that suddenly received a much-needed windfall from some unknown, wealthy man out in Texas who was impressed by a frum Jew he’d met years earlier. Would I be that man? I fantasized. Would this be a story to tell my grandchildren? Would they name a wing of the yeshivah after me?

It wasn’t until I got on the plane that I opened the check he’d given me. Fifty dollars.

Ah, well.

I phoned my wife as soon as I landed in LaGuardia.

“… and I got those applications you asked me to get, for the accounting programs,” she said.

“Oh, that. Well, Malka, I’ve been rethinking things — I’m not sure if accounting is what I should be doing right now.”

“You mean you’ve decided to stay in yeshivah?” Her raised pitch carried over the phone line.

“Um, no, I don’t think so. No, I’ve decided we should go where we’re really needed.… Did you know, Malka, that there are Jews out there who don’t even have a Pesach Seder? Who actually think badly of Orthodox Jews? There’s a war out there, Malka; the fires of assimilation are raging, and we need to fight fire with fire! What do you think of joining a kiruv kollel out in the Midwest? …  Okay, okay, we’ll talk more when I get home.”

As I waited at the baggage claim, I thought wearily that I still had a week and a half of fundraising ahead of me. Counting Mr. Levi’s 50, my trip to Texas had netted about $1,200. I thought that was a pretty respectable amount, and wondered briefly if I had enough to retire early from fundraising. After all, I’d never be a world-class fundraiser. But I was starting to see that my Rosh Yeshivah did know me pretty well after all.

(Originally featured in Calligraphy, Pesach 5773)