Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 9 of a new online serial novel, If Anyone Is Listening, by Esther Rapaport. Check back for a new chapter every week. Click here for previous chapters.
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The linen was clean, at least, and the bed was fairly comfortable. Shimmy turned to the other side and pondered his situation. He’d spent the last two days idling his time at the hotel. He couldn’t go to the factory to check the sample of Tanchum, because Jang refused to let him in without the payment. He also couldn’t tour the city with his interpreter, because the hours spent with him were also a costly undertaking. Gedalya’s friend had agreed to do a bank transfer to pay for the hotel, but it was clear to both of them that it was a loan, and that Shimmy would be the one who would have to pay it off.
So was that it? Had he come for nothing, and would go back the same way? All the cyber experts at Citibank were working hard to solve the problem. But what would happen if they would not be able to fix things until Shimmy’s return flight? And…would they even be able to revert those accounts to their previous status?
The phone rang—Gedalya was calling. Shimmy reached for the phone in slow motion. His last conversations with Gedalya hadn’t been very upbeat. And he could understand him; the man had lost tens of thousands of dollars in a minute. The fact that he was not alone in this problem was not particularly encouraging.
But Gedalya sounded pretty good. “Hi, Shimmy!”
“Hi, what’s doing?”
“Call Shio. Tell him to set up a meeting with Jang right away. I’m making a transfer in a couple of minutes.”
“You borrowed money, or did things get sorted out?”
“They’re sorted out, baruch Hashem.”
“Amazing. Really good.” He had to check his own balance now, to see that everything was really okay.
“Yes. Baruch Hashem a hundred times.”
“You sound fine, but not happy.”
“Right, because I’m still traumatized—let’s call it that. But regarding Tanchum, I decided that if we’ve already started to invest, let’s move ahead with it.”
“Why the trauma? Did Citibank’s accounts get resolved or not?”
“They did, but it’s not clear if it’s because of the work of the experts. According to what people are saying, it was without any connection to their efforts; everything was suddenly restored, as if we haven’t all gone through two nail-biting, nerve-wracking days.”
“So what do the experts say? How did it happen?”
“They say lots of things. Lots of nonsense, to be more precise. Now Citibank is proudly touting their accounts as the safest and most protected, because they just went through such an upheaval—and they’ve dealt with it. You’ll see, there are going to be advertisements in the coming days promoting investments specifically there.”
“Nu, why not?” Shimmy stood up and felt around for his shoes. He didn’t need to wash his hands because he hadn’t slept. It was just a tortured rest, without any purpose, and thankfully, it was now over.
“Because the fact that anyone was able to do such a thing means that the bank is not very strong against hackers. The fact that they were able to fix it—or if it was not even them who fixed it, and the hacker was the one who restored the accounts—”
“But does that make sense to you, that the accounts should suddenly be at zero, without the bank having any ability to restore them to their real status? Does it really seem to you that the banks’ computers don’t have ironclad memories that preserve every transaction, in every account, twenty-four hours a day? It sounds absurd!”
“Absurd or not,” Gedalya said, “the facts were pretty dismal. But let’s not waste time discussing this. Call Shio, and start moving things along.”
***
Tzippy walked into the house. Mommy wasn’t there; she’d gone to the wholesale store in south Tel Aviv to order merchandise for the small store where she worked. Devoiry Roth, the owner, trusted her saleswoman’s taste completely, and it was not the first time Mommy had ordered merchandise for her.
“Tatty?” She stopped at the dining room door. Her father was seated on an armchair, his leg stretched out in front of him on the faded velour ottoman, his eyes closed. “Tatty?”
“Hi, Tzippy.” He didn’t open his eyes. “How are you? How was school?”
“Baruch Hashem, great. But it looks like you don’t feel well. Is it your head? Should I close the shutters?”
“No, it’s not my head, it’s my leg.”
“Your leg?” Tzippy approached and studied it. His ankle seemed a bit swollen, and very red.
“Mommy’s not back yet, right?”
“Right.”
“Can you come with me to the emergency room?” Yaakov Shlomo opened his eyes. “If Shimmy would be in the country, I’d ask him to join me. The hospital is not the place for a young girl. But there’s no choice now; I think I need someone to accompany me…” He seemed to suppress a sigh. “Will it be too hard for you?”
“No, of course not,” she said. Goodbye, computer programming exam. I’ll see you at the make-up test, with a starting grade of 95…
“So go eat something first, and then we’ll go.”
“Did you eat?”
“I can’t,” he said. Through his calm exterior, she discerned a slight grimace that made his lower lip tremble.
She quickly ate a few cookies, and downed a cup of milk. Then she put together a bag with Tatty’s medical records, which were always in the drawer.
“I don’t think it’s necessarily connected to my regular issues,” he said. “I think that right now this is either cellulitis, or some other infection, but you know what? Maybe it is all connected. Oh, and would you mind doing one more thing for me before you call a taxi?” She stopped. “Go into the room where I record for Rubinson’s hotline, and check on the small screen if it says ‘ok’ in green.”
Tzippy hurried to the little room, the one that had been Shimmy’s before he’d gotten married. On the desk were sefer Emunah U’Bitachon, by the Chazon Ish, Pachad Yitzchak by Rav Yitzchak Hutner, and a few other small sefarim with worn bindings. She didn’t think that the recordings for Rubinson’s little hotline was all that urgent right now, but she knew it was important to her father. She walked around the strange device that looked like a cross between an old telephone with buttons to press and a more modern printer, until she found a little screen. Yes, the word ‘ok’ was flashing in green on the screen.
“Yes, Tatty, ‘ok’ is blinking,” she called back.
“Good,” he said. “Thanks, Tzippy. Now you can call a taxi.”
The emergency room was packed. Aside for an intake nurse, who took some basic information when they arrived, and a young doctor, who glanced at the leg after fifty minutes and said, “I’ll send Dr. Pollak to you,” no one paid them any attention.
“We didn’t call Mommy,” Yaakov Shlomo said as he leaned his head back on the wall behind their chairs. Tzippy didn’t like seeing him so pale. “I don’t want to make her worry. But she might be coming home soon, so call and tell her that my leg was hurting so we went to see a doctor.”
“I think you’re going to need intravenous antibiotics,” Tzippy murmured as she toyed with the phone. Tatty had barely been able to put weight on the leg as they’d hobbled out to the taxi and from the taxi into here.
“If it’s a simple case of cellulitis, I’m not sure.”
“Do you think you have fever?” she asked. A seventeen-year-old girl in the emergency room, and her father didn’t want to tell her mother that once again he needed medical care that went beyond Amoxicillin or triptans for migraines. “No one has found the time to come and take your temperature.”
“Every delay is for the good.”
Just then, Mommy answered, and her background hearing was so sharp that right away she said, “Which doctor did Tatty go see? You’re in the emergency room, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Tzippy said. A nurse approached with a blood pressure cart, but after a second it became clear that she was heading to a set of parents with a young bachur, who were sitting in the next row of chairs.
“So, did he see someone yet?”
“No.”
“Let me talk to him. I think you should go home, and I’ll make an appointment at the clinic for this evening. Dr. Tawil sees patients from six-thirty. It’s much better to go to a doctor that knows you instead of some intern in the emergency room.”
“But he doesn’t feel well, Mommy,” Tzippy said. “I don’t think he can wait till the evening.”
“Fine, whatever he wants. But I’m still quite far away.” A metallic voice that sounded like the recorded messages on the bus told her that Mommy was now leaving from Tel Aviv. The sharp perception of background noise seemed to run in the family—or perhaps buses and emergency rooms were just both especially noisy.
“What did Mommy say?” Yaakov Shlomo asked.
“That maybe it’s better to go to your regular doctor. But if you really don’t feel well, then it’s good that we’re here. She’s still in Tel Aviv, so she can’t come for a while.”
“Do you want to tell her to buy you something to eat on the way? You didn’t eat a real meal.” He rummaged in his jacket pocket. “Or go find a machine here to buy yourself something.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m not hungry. What about you, Tatty?”
“I can’t eat,” he said, and closed his eyes again. “But you have to eat.”
“So we came just in time,” a pleasant voice said from behind Tzippy. She turned and saw an elderly, slightly bent-over woman standing there, offering her a tray. “I’m sorry I eavesdropped—it wasn’t on purpose. Come and tell me what you want to eat, and take a sandwich for your father too. Is he before surgery or something, that he’s not allowed to eat?”
“No, chas v’shalom! I mean, I hope not.”
“So take a sandwich for him too. Even if he doesn’t want to eat now, he might want it later. There’s tuna, omelet, and yellow cheese. What would you like?”
“Thanks,” Tzippy said, suddenly feeling acutely how the cookies and milk hadn’t satiated her at all.
***
This week, I was in the emergency room, and I observed the wonderful volunteers who come there. On the outside, observing—what have they done already? What’s a roll with a piece of yellow cheese, and how many seconds does it take to fry an omelet on both sides? Not a lot, that’s the truth. But this little roll contains special strength, strength that conveys: You’re not alone.
The Chazon Ish in his sefer Emunah U’Bitachon says…
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