Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 10 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.
Copyright © Israel Bookshop Publications.
I only get to the Shabbos dishes on Sunday morning. My two daughters were here for Shabbos, and it was quite the ruckus. We hardly had time to sit and talk, just the three of us, and deep down, I was happy about that. I didn’t have the energy for questions like, “How are Yudi and Ruchi?” and, “When did you last speak to them?” After candle lighting, they both sat and chatted on the couch, with their children around them, and I rested in my room as my oldest granddaughter told me her stories about eighth grade and the mother-daughter program that the school had just hosted. For the rest of Shabbos, I didn’t even have time for that much schmoozing.
My phone rings from its perch near the stove, and I use a wet finger to connect the Bluetooth.
“Hello, Mommy?”
“Hi, Yudi, how are you?”
“Mazel tov, I’m a father!” he shouts happily. “We have a baby boy!”
“A boy!” I say with wide eyes as I move away from the sink. “Baruch Hashem! Mazel tov, Yudi’le! How beautiful!”
“Yes, baruch Hashem…” He sounds a bit confused, like every new father.
“When was he born? And how much does he weigh?”
“He was born…I don’t know, sometime after Shabbos ended here. And I don’t know how much he weighs. Ruchi’s mother says he is healthy, baruch Hashem, and that he looks great.”
“I’m so happy, Yudi!” And it’s a son. A son is more the father’s domain. He goes with his father to shul, to cheder; he grows up under his guidance. Had it been a girl, I’d be much more worried.
“Yes, it’s so exciting!” he says.
“And you are probably very tired.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Does he look like you?”
“I don’t know.” My son chuckles. “I don’t remember what I looked like as a baby.”
“But you’ve seen your baby pictures.” Please, Hashem, let him look like Yudi and not like Ruchi.
“I don’t really remember,” he says, and his voice begins to sound a touch impatient. “Anyway, Ruchi’s father says that talking about who the baby looks like is a subject for mothers and not for fathers.”
“Right.” I stand near the large kitchen window, gazing at a truck slowly pulling out of the parking lot across the street; I don’t ask what else Ruchi’s father says. “Where are you now, Yudi? In the hospital?”
“No, I’m home already. I mean, in my shver and shvigger’s house. They said it’s not good for me to sleep myself.”
“That’s true,” I say softly, and steal a glance at my watch. It’s been more than five hours since Shabbos was over on the East Coast. I wonder exactly what time this baby was born. “So, are you going to sleep now?”
“No, because I’m not tired. I’m confused.”
I smile. “So what will you do?”
“Maybe I’ll listen to Moni’s latest shiur.”
“Whose?”
“Moni—I told you. He has great shiurim on all kinds of important subjects.”
“What kind of name is Moni? I remember that you told me you listen to drashos, but I thought they’re from rabbanim.”
“No, no. I mean, he’s probably Jewish, but lots of non-Jews listen to him, too.”
I close the window. Something here doesn’t sound right, and it’s not the truck that is still trying to maneuver its way out with a cacophony of irritating honking. “And why do you think he’s Jewish?”
“It’s not that I think so. Everyone who listens to him, the Yidden, I mean, say so.”
“Oh, really? Does he quote from Torahdige sources?”
“I don’t really know.” He’s caught off guard. “Sometimes he says in English pesukim from Chumash or Tehillim… Besides that, I don’t know a lot of sources. But Ruchi’s mother and father say that he sounds like a Yid who also wants non-Jews to buy his shiurim, and they also started listening to him because of me. He says all kinds of things from our sefarim; he just doesn’t say which sefer it’s from.”
The fact that Ruchi’s parents know what this is about doesn’t exactly reassure me. Surely not when “it sounds like a Yid who also wants non-Jews to buy his shiurim.” Not that I can judge and say that that’s a serious crime, but the whole story just doesn’t smell right to me.
“For example,” Yudi’s voice grows a bit stronger, “in the shiur at the beginning of the week, he spoke about chessed and he said something really nice. I don’t remember exactly what, but we spoke about it at the Friday night seudah, and Ruchi’s father said that it’s exactly what the Chazon Ish says in his sefer. But Moni himself doesn’t say the name of the sefer.”
“Which sefer, Chazon Ish?”
“I don’t remember the name of it.” Yudi sounds very uneasy again, and I berate myself. Really! What’s with me?! Is this how a phone call should sound, when my youngest calls to tell me about the birth of his first child?
Yes, this is exactly how it should sound. And I’d be a fool if I’d innocently say that this is a normal conversation between a mother and her son.
With Yudi, everything is more complicated. Much more complicated.
And only after we finish the conversation, with lots of good wishes and brachos, and with Yudi’s promise to lie down and go to sleep as soon as possible, and with my decision to try to find out a bit about these strange shiurim, do I remember that I didn’t even ask how Ruchi is doing.
***
“Tanchum himself is amazing,” Shimmy said excitedly. He was bent over his suitcase, putting the last few things inside. “The question is, who’s guaranteeing that they will produce ten thousand of the exact same things as the sample?”
“That’s exactly why I’m not paying them everything now. This evening I will send Sun Jang the second payment, and only after the whole stock is ready—in about a month—and we come to check it, will we pay the balance.”
“Who is going to come back here and check?”
“We originally agreed that it would be you. Did something change since then?”
“I don’t know…China and I just don’t get along.” Shimmy was trying not to sound cantankerous. “On my last visit here, there was that bat that destroyed my experience, and now we had this thing with the bank that left me in limbo for two days and made me feel like such a loser… It’s like this lack of success is chasing me on my visits here.” And the thoughts of bats were also chasing him, but he wouldn’t tell that to Gedalya. He also wouldn’t tell him about the black shadow hovering now outside near the window of his room. He had no intention of opening up that window to check who or what it was.
“What do you mean, a lack of success? Why do you say that?” Gedalya asked, but he sounded distracted. “Excuse me, what is going on here?”
“Are you with me, Gedalya? It doesn’t sound like it.”
“I am with you, and I’m also with a few guys here who are blocking the hallway.”
“Where?”
“On the way to my office. It’s in an office tower, on the same floor as an emergency medical clinic, and I have no idea what this sudden crowd is today. Did they bring the American president here or something? It looks like a whole high school class decided to converge over here!”
“Are the people Jewish, at least?”
“I wish. Sorry, can I pass, please?”
“Would you like a drink, sir?” A youth with cheerful eyes offered Gedalya a can of soda.
Gedalya studied the can. “No thanks,” he said, after seeing that it was not a familiar brand. “What is this? Are you an advertisement for this soda company?”
“Not only for that,” someone else said, waving a small, steaming bagel in his face. “A cheese sandwich, sir?”
“No thanks. What exactly are you advertising?”
“The idea of contributing to the world, volunteering, helping one another.”
“Yes, yes,” his shorter friend added. “And there’s nothing like a satisfying breakfast to start your hard day, sir, and to make it easier for you.”
“Why hard?” Gedalya protested. “I hope that G-d will send me a good, easy, and blessed day already now, from the start!”
“Amen,” Shimmy declared from the other end of the line. “Nu, what’s going on over there? Did you meet the president yet? You can tell him what you think about the poor security of the banking system in America.” He raised his head. That black-gray thing hovering outside was no longer sufficing with flying back and forth; now it kept bumping into the window with a sickening sound. Would the plastic pane break? It didn’t seem like it, at least for now.
But what it did seem was that indeed, it was that same disgusting creature. And Shimmy suddenly had a strong urge to find out what this thing was and what it wanted from him. He approached the partially sealed window and knocked on it twice. Gedalya was busy in any case with the hubbub around him.
The creature outside stopped at that moment, and knocked back twice in response. Shimmy gaped at it, and after a second’s thought, knocked three times. A moment later, he got three knocks in return. Shimmy felt himself struggling with the sudden urge to open the window to see this trained bat from up close. Who had trained it? And what did it want from him?
“What do you want from me?!” he screamed at the window, but the shout was useless. The pane blocked out all sound, and the bat remained there, motionless, as if waiting to count the next set of knocks.
“Shimmy? Shimmy?” Gedalya said into the phone. “Were you talking to me?”
“No, everything’s okay. We’ll talk later. Go and schmooze with the president.”
Gedalya raised his eyebrows, ended the call, and looked around him. Three more youths were blocking his path. “Do you want us to escort you to the doctor?” one of them asked. “It will be good for you, and for us, as we develop mutual responsibility.”
“Mutual responsibility?” Gedalya echoed. “That’s really nice of you, but thank G-d I’m not on the way to any doctor. I’m on the way to my office.”
“In the clinic?”
“No, further along the floor. There’s a small section that doesn’t belong to the clinic.” He looked at their disappointed faces. “What can I tell you? Kudos to you for your spirit of volunteerism. I guess it’s intended for the clinic’s clients? I’m sure it will lift their spirits.”
“Yes, we sure hope so!” the youths who had been blocking his path said, and they beat a hasty retreat.
Gedalya forged a path through the crowd that had invaded the floor this morning, and saw them approaching people sitting on the waiting benches, inundating them with their offers. Hey, why not? If America would succeed in getting its youth to be more considerate and effective for society at large, only good could come out of that.
He wondered who was behind this sudden spirit of volunteerism.
***
Today I want to speak about bitachon in Hashem.
Tell me, dear listener: What is bitachon? Being sure that everthing will be good? That is true. The question is what we call “good.” Is it only that which we, with our limited and human vision, think is good?
thenextpage-israelbookshop.com 