Who is I?

Arctic wolves abandoned me as a baby in a maternity ward in Philadelphia where I was adopted by a kind hearted Jewish couple who still claim to be my parents. I have lost most of my lupine physical traits but I am left with an unfulfilled desire to chase rabbits through the snow. Recognizing their adopted sons need for open space and plentiful game, they raised me in the wilds of suburban New Jersey. The conservative Jewish private schools were strangely suited to my animalistic needs. The academics were dog-eat-dog, the school lunches freshly killed game with a minimalistic hecksher, and the rabbis were open to howling at the moon as a valid outlet for expressing my Jewishness. The centerpieces at my Bar Mitzvah were a big hit. I was forced to drop out of Rutgers in my senior year when it was discovered that my non-human anatomy would never be able to adapt to drinking liquids through a funnel. In the end, I left in protest, furious that my double major in Cafeteria and Game Room had been discontinued due to academic cutbacks. I toyed with the idea of returning to my roots but years of living amongst humans and stalking my prey in shopping malls had civilized the animal I should have been. The local bagel shop refused to allow me to strip down and stalk my meals in their aisles. It was a classic case of adapt or die. I chose a cooking career over being an evolutionary drop-out and moved to New York in order to apprentice in the most exclusive French restaurants. Being a wolf left me underprepared for life in Manhattan where the real animals rode around in limousines. I learned to cook shrimp, lobster, and other aquatic bugs for celebrities and the absurdly rich. I finally felt at home and everything made sense. Any desire, every base animal appetite, was catered to in the finest and most complete fashion, to those who could afford it. Nothing was too low, no scenario too disgusting, that you couldn’t find a venue that would refuse your major credit card. In between sips of vintage wine, I developed a taste for the specific brand of ultra-violence and debasement found in the east village after midnight. There was bare bones truth there that exposed the lies of the American dream. Hell’s Angels were prophets and I became a part-time disciple. Ozzy and Harriet lay dead by the side of the highway, bloated from cholesterol filled junk food, killed execution style by roving hordes of rogue debt collectors. At some point in my drunken stupor, I became sick to the very core of my existence. Living for pleasure left me disgusted at myself and angry at my creator. I couldn’t continue and I couldn’t go back to the burbs. The wizard of Oz was a closet queer and Dorothy had a crush on Toto. At the age of thirty, I had lost my roadmap. Lost and alone, I followed the Grateful Dead on summer tour, living on reds, vitamin C, and cocaine. I whispered my questions into a small vial of LSD and finally got some clear answers to life’s trickier questions. The vial whispered back “Why have you always lived someone else’s dream? Listen to your own heart”. I found a tiny guardian angel hiding behind a mushroom. He was fragile as glass but I could tell he could kick any biker’s ass. He told me to go to Israel. They kicked out of the aliya office for not wearing a tie or a yarmulke but the kibbutz shaliach said my biker boots were perfect for farm work and was happy to sell me a ticket. I envisioned egalitarian living with free-thinking yet underclad European co-eds but through a divinely inspired misunderstanding, I ended up on a religious kibbutz, Sde Eliyahu, pork grease still glistening on my chin. There, I was informed that my background in haute cuisine and overpowered motorcycles made me a prime candidate for the dairy sheds. I traded in my chef’s hat for gum boots and spent five years acting as a surrogate mother for sabra calves. Tractors were the agro-placebo for my motorcycle itch and riding half-wild Arabian mares around the Jordan Valley was an acceptable substitute for being chased by state troopers down interstate highways. My aggressions and occasional need to drink beer and fight were met by futile attempts at cow tipping. The cows never seemed to notice. The same wisdom prevailing in the IDF, I was trained as a combat medic. The existentialist crisis created by carrying a gun and bandages had a calming effect and the long hours of lonely guard duty in the desert finally convinced my internal dialog that it had nothing worthwhile to say and that it was time to shut up and listen. At the end of five years, I left kibbutz, firmly committed to leaving religion behind. I was going to leave my sorry excuse for a soul at the lost and found in the Egged bus station and be done with spiritual journeys. That decision led me straight to yeshiva in Bat Ayin where conflicting bus schedules have made it impossible for me to leave. Ten years of studying ancient legal texts in Aramaic has pretty much straightened out all the misconceptions western education instilled in me. I woke up this morning to discover that I have been married to a wonderful woman and have four frum from birth Israeli children. My wife says that I have returned to cooking, the children are all mine from natural methods, and that I am happy. My threats to retire to the Arctic to hunt small furry animals are met with a sweet smile and shake of her head. I find all of that difficult to believe, absolutely contradicting many laws of nature and most rules of logic, but for lack of evidence or explanations to the contrary, I am compelled to agree with her. Perhaps I was not genetically inclined to wolfness, but I am so ill-suited to be a productive, SUV driving, suburbanite, that I might as well have been born with grey fur and fangs. I’ve been trying to dance to the music of my soul but it’s a difficult half-step boogie with a bit of techno-polka thrown in. My dream is to keep being me but with more time to write and much less time spent in commercial kitchens. I want to build a shack in the woods with an espresso machine and beer on tap where anyone can come and sit long enough to tell me a story, preferably their story.

Who am I? Someone who looks like me is living my life.

There was recently an article written about me in Mishpacha Magazine and, even more recently, in Mkor Rishon. I was waiting for a resulting attack of hubris, some dangerous challenge to the fine balance of my self-perception. Either I missed it and it is now embedded in my ego as a Trojan horse virus, or my ego shrugged this off as an unworthy challenger. I could be wrong, but I tend to feel that me ego is safe this time. I reviewed the article before it was published but never actually saw it in print. The author, a very enthusiastic woman by the name of Sara Fachter, seemed to think it was a good article. I'll be very pleased to take her word for it. The photographer, Miri, was amazing fun to work with and has a true artist's neshama. But I can't be motivated to read an article about me. If I have any trouble interpreting what I see in the mirror, my wife and children, my friends, my chevruta, and my rabbi, will set me straight.

Let me tell you (yet another) Purim story. Once, many years ago, Bat Ayin Yeshiva was in the midst of one of its epic Purim feasts, the kind that need to be cleaned up with a firehose and medium sized tractor. My dear friend Hillel grabbed me by the shirt and began to calmly explain to me who I was and what kind of person I am. I was speechless, open-mouth shocked. I don't remember what he said, though I am sure it was poignant and accurate. I was shocked that someone had noticed that underneath all my blustering and misguided attempts at acting like a person, there really was a me. I wasn't sure I existed and here was someone lecturing me on the finer details of who I was.

Part of my tshuva process was stripping away handy self-definitions meant to satisfy the masses. Every American knows that the second question a stranger will ask you is "What do you do?". The first question, asked out of politeness, is your name. If you are at a social gathering and someone asks those two questions, try checking if they remember the answers an hour later. Most people will have forgotten your name, but your occupation is probably embedded in their memory. I am afraid that society is pushing us into molds. It used to be that every person would carve out a unique path in their career. I was horrified to discover that there is now a college degree in medical billing. My brother is an engineer. I feel that his fixing engines when he was a teen has a lot more to do with that than his college degree. People cannot be quantified, but the "system" tries. I am a chef so I like to taste people. Each one tastes different, even if the titles are the same. I don't mean that I introduce myself by licking total strangers. That would be unhygienic, socially problematic and possibly illegal in many states. What I mean is that taste is unquantifiable, organic, and unique. It is also the sense that requires itnimate personal contact and involvement. You internalize the experience.

When I first moved to Israel, I arrived at Kibbutz Sde Eliyahu. I proudly anounced that I was a classically trained French chef to everyone who would listen. The only ones willing to listen were the dairy cows because a kibbutz needs a chef like a snake needs suspenders. My epiphany came from the mouth of Menachem Hess, a seventy year old German immigrant who could physically outwork me. One day, after making a total mess of the morning feeding of the baby calves, I went on a tirade, saying that I was a chef and not built for this. He turned to me and said "The cows don't care who you think you are. You have two arms and two legs and are a man and a Jew, like God created you. No more and no less. The cows are hungry, so feed them." That shattered me. It had been so comforting to always pigeon hole myself. I am a chef and I am pretty good at it. Anything I am bad at that doesn't include being a a chef is not my problem. Well, all of a sudden I was faced with a new problem. I was only a chef when making an ommellete. When the cows are hungry, I need to be a dairy farmer. I need to be a husband. More specifically, I need to be a husband to my wife. God gave me children so that I could be their father. And each one of them brings out a different father hidden inside of me.

Leaving the kitchen was a form of suicide, but at the same time it was a rebirth. I could no longer define myself as only a chef. But, to be honest, I feel that so many people hide behind their own self definitions. I have met so many people who try to pawn themselves off as average. They have quick and easily understood titles. And they try to limit it to one title, usually their job. But I love stories. Book titles don't satisfy me. Every person I meet is a new story waiting to be told, unique and impossible to plaigarize.

One of the first phrases I learned in my tshuva process that rang true was, "Many ships cross the ocean, but no one can follow the other because they don't leave trails." I don't know where youve been, and even if I did, I couldn't possibly know what that was for you. And the only reason we met was because I needed to know that.

Family trip

I took the kids to the kotel and realized that the temple mount was also the site where Abraham offered up Isaac as a sacrifice, a flesh and blood father pressing the knife to his own son’s breast because God told him to. For so many generations, that is what Jewish parents, nameless myriads of less notorious faith, have done. We have chosen to allow our children to die or be killed rather than abandon the faith. And now it is my turn and and I reluctantly admitted that I have chosen that also. I take my son to the kotel and declare, “Behold, my son, the only thing greater than my love for you.”

A pocketful of seeds- A settler's poem

    I came to the desert with a pocket full of seeds

    To live in the house of my father's best dreams

    Promised to me before I was born

    Taken away because of my sins

    I came with a map painted on ancient hide

    To find the city of gold stripped of its wealth

    Its life giving springs poisoned or dry

    My father's house burned to the ground

    The first night I awoke with a knife at my throat

    My grandfather's bones held for ransom

    The gravestones are scattered and used to pave roads

    By an unlettered cousin thirsty for blood

    He came in the night to kill me and steal my inheritance

    A grave stands now where my brother lies buried

    But my dog of a cousin ran licking his wounds

    And now I must mourn as I sharpen my sword

    And yet I stay

    And build

    And plant my seeds

    And live in my father's dream

    Where my cousin knew only to take from the land

    Until it had no more left to give

    Making a desert that mirrored his soul

    The desert now blooms, my father

    The wheat is now ripe

    But I may not harvest

    My cousin has come

    He lives in the house my grandfather built

    The house where my father was born

    He claims to be the owner

    Yet my father's mark is still upon the door

    My grandfather bought a house

    Paying a ransom for a gift from his god

    The house where you live

    Counting my money

    Wiping your sword

    There you worship the man

    Whose children you kill

    Tell me, dear cousin

    How many times may a house be bought?

    How many deaths can be forgotten?

    Tell me, my cousin

    How came you upon your inheritance?

    Whose blood lies spilled upon the floor?

    Now strangers have come

    Selling swords and crying for peace

    I still remember how they burned my father

    When he could not fight back

    I came with my seeds to a desert

    Fleeing the fire

    And now I am labeled the oppressor

    In a stranger's court ruled by gold

    And the thief wears a suit and tie

                A smell of oil follows him wherever he goes

    You don't like my poem?

    Tell me, judge

    What rhymes with tie?

    Wait.

    You don't like this.

    Are my words too simple?

    Have I made history into a nursery rhyme?

    Is truth too complex to be understood

    By a man of simple belief in good and evil

    And justice based on proof

    And truth

    Or did you expect me to dig my own grave and lie down to die

    Yet again

    Pardon me for being uncultured

    And recalling past sins

    The truth isn't simple

        They tell me

    Justice must be served

        They say the time has come

    Now is the time for their kind of justice

    And I must stand silent in the place of the guilty

                  Accused of murder

                But if they speak the truth

                                Why am I the one burying my dead?                              

   

    My dead brother lies forgotten

    My murdered father lies in an unmarked grave

    The dead cannot ask for this new wave of justice

    And the killer claims an inheritance in this new style of court

    The land lay empty and neglected

        Yet you stake your claim from the beginning of time

        So tell me, my cousin

        Where are your trees?

    I came

    I built

    I made the desert bloom from the wells you poisoned

       So tell me, my cousin

       Why don't you go to feast in you brother's courtyard?

    Is that fear I see in your eyes?

    I cry for justice

        As I bury my dead

    You cry for peace

        As you wipe my blood from your blade

    And your words are accepted

    In the courts ruled by gold

    After all

    Peace sounds so much nicer than justice

    So your words must be true

I've been hired to be me

            I was reading something I wrote a while back and I didn’t like it. I read some other stories and realized that I always write in the past passive, third person. That’s probably a grammatical observation as well as a life statement. I live my life as a passive observer, rehashing past events, looking for myself somewhere between the letters, in the gaps between memories and never quite succeeding. I want to make this different. Usually I think of a plot line, starting from somewhere near the end, and work it over in my mind until it is complete. I begin writing at the beginning, because I am afraid of straying too from sanity, and when I finish, I go back and edit the whole mess. That’s also more of a life philosophy than literary strategy. I am terrified to put down words as they come. But isn’t that how we live our lives, laying down days like bricks, with a vague idea of what it will look like when its done. I have a shaky belief that I know the beginning of the story of my life. Most of what I know is third party retelling, witnessed from afar. Even if it is my own memories, it is suspect, worked over by ego, super-ego, and id, into a sanitized version that I can live with. We believe our stories and allow them to replace our memories, even when they leave us with a second-hand jigsaw puzzle, spread out on the kitchen table, with several pieces mysteriously missing, and several odd-shapes and colors that obviously don’t belong. It can’t be that I sit down with myself like a stranger, yet here I am. I don’t have a plot that knits together well. I can’t magically pull out answers from the exalted position of the invisible participant; the omniscient author. In the story of my life, I am the shlepper that has to toil through the mud without a map or storyline. It feels like the opposite of waking from a dream into a dream. I wake from one reality into another, disconnected, even more bizarre reality, gasp for breath while grabbing a cup of coffee, run out the door into a world that has no time for childish misfits. Left alone, I stop, breaking surface to gasp for air, content to tread water as my mind clears.

            If anything, I feel like I am struggling to write an uber resume’, a gestaltic ‘who-am-I’. That’s comforting. I am great at job interviews. I’ve gone on hundreds of interviews. I love them. I always get offered the job before the interview is over. It’s easy for me. I am never intimidated at interviews. A long time ago I learned that I am an okay guy and that there are few jobs that are truly beyond me. It probably wouldn’t be a good idea to hire me to command a manned mission to Mars, though I even have a few ideas about a better way to go around doing that. Interviews are the best part about n new job. I love meeting new people who need something and convincing them that they need me. I can present myself anyway they want. The problem is that today I am applying for the job of ‘me’ and I am not so sure I’m qualified. I am not so sure that if I get the job, I can handle it. Job interviews are comforting. You walk in with a past but no future. You walk out saying “I am now a (fill in the blank)” and suddenly the storyline seems to have a direction. The nicest thing about job interviews is that avoid asking the one question I can’t answer and it is probably the most important question for a person who is considering employing me. It’s the question that caused no end of grief for my father and shaped much of my life. At forty-six years old, I spend those precious pre-sleep moments lying in the dark asking myself in my father’s voice, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

            In my finer moments, I dare to whisper the answer my father would never have accepted but might have understood. The teen-rebel remnants of my persona deny that my father ever understood me yet I am, after all, a product of his deeper dreams, a tiny remnant of his physicality, a dead man walking. I am sure that he would have understood but I don’t regret never having told him. He would have understood but he never would have allowed himself to accept. He would have been overcome with obligation and guilt, warning me of the danger and inconvenience of such a profession. And, of course, there is no demand for it these days. I would be a cooper, a candle-maker, a shoemaker, a shepherd. I would be a minstrel, a blacksmith, a bookbinder.

            So today I sit down for a job interview and for the first time ever, I didn’t shower or tuck in my shirt. My socks don’t match and my hair is uncombed. I sit across the desk from myself and smile as I ask me the ultimate question. The re3flection on my computer monitor looks shocked and confused for a few seconds but manages to pull itself together. I am scared for a moment as I clear my throat, but I am ready to answer honestly for the first time in my life, clearly stating the words that have never been spoken to anyone but my wife as she slept by my side.

            “I want to be the town wise man. I want to be the fool on the hill, shouting out the truth for all to hear whether they liked it or even wanted it. I want to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, night and day, until even my best friends tell me to shut up. That’s my idea of a job. Lousy pay but great benefits.”

            I am shocked when I reach across the table and shake my hand. I have been offered the job. Part of me wants to flash a smug smile and politely reject the offer, as I have done so many times before. But I’m stuck. In the first few minutes of trying on the hat for size, I realize that I have spent my whole life doing the job and the interview was a sham. I think the only job requirement is learning how to laugh while you cry, and being very careful to turn down the ends of your mouth when you smile. If I ever have a totally good day, you’ll never hear about it and I probably wouldn’t survive it. The book of wisdom is written with a bone pen dipped in tears. Of course, it’s hard to read because the writer is shaking with laughter while he writes.

             

Who needs God when you can buy powdered milk?

I work for a local newspaper based in a small town. It may not be as exciting as working for one of the big city newspapers but in one way it is more interesting. If I worked at one of those papers, I would be pigeonholed into reporting one type of news. Since there are only three reporters working for the Montclair Tribune, we are expected to cover whatever comes our way. This morning I showed up at the office and found a note from my editor telling me to go to Happy Hooves Dairy Farm. They had just won honors for being the most productive dairy farm in the state. Like I said, my job may not be exciting but it definitely is varied.

            The note from my editor included vague directions for getting there but, knowing the county circuit pretty well, I thought I knew where it was. After almost an hour of driving, the last twenty minutes on a clean swept gravel country lane, I arrived at a pretty little farm in a scenic valley. The red barn was a short distance from a small cottage and the silo had a wind vane spinning high on top. The cows were beautiful black and white Holsteins, calmly grazing on the sweet summer grass in a pasture set back behind the farm buildings. I pulled out my camera and started snapping pictures. I could see the milking shed behind the barn and started towards it when the farmer came out from the milking shed headed towards the house. I called out and he caught sight of me as I turned into the driveway. He put down the pail he was carrying, wiped his hands on a bandana hanging from the back pocket of his overalls, and came over to greet me.

            He shook my hand as I stepped from the car. His hand was calloused and his grip was strong. “Howdy. My name is Bob. What brings you to my farm?”

            I showed him my press card with my name and picture. “I am here to do a story on your farm. It’s said that you know a thing or two about dairy farming. Our readers would love to hear about it.”

            Farmer Bob smiled and slapped me on the back. “Well, I don’t mean to blow my own horn, but there aren’t many people who know modern intensive dairy farming as well as I do. Let me show you around.”

            For the next two hours he led me around his farm. He showed me his silo, full to the brim with sweet smelling silage, fortified with commercial vitamin additives that are essential to top dairy production. Farmer Bob explained that these vitamins are lacking in the average farmer’s cow feed. He showed me his milking parlor and the computerized system he used to track individual dairy production. He showed me the printouts and I was amazed at the database required for what I thought of as simple farming. The milking machines had a brand new system for sterilizing in between milkings. He showed me a room where he kept frozen bull seed for artificial insemination. I asked him about that and he showed me a computerized leg bracelet that was actually a pedometer that was fitted on every cow so they could keep track of the cow’s heat cycle. We sat down in his office for a cup of tea when the tour was over. I took the tape out of my pocket recorder. The two-hour tape was full from the non-stop lecture Farmer Bob had given as we walked around his farm. I could fully understand how this man had become the top dairy farmer in the state. I had never met anyone who was as well versed in his field as this man. In addition, he spoke with a real passion that I found infectious. I was ready to give up reporting and buy a dairy farm. As I sipped my tea, I looked around his office. The shelves were lined with books about veterinary science, feeding techniques, and other cow related subjects. One wall was covered with pictures of champion bulls and cows. Farmer Bob sat across the desk from me, smiling as I jotted down a few notes.

            He finally broke the silence. “Tell me, how did you find out about my operation?”

            I looked up from my writing. “They called and told my editor about that award you won.”
            He looked puzzled. “What award?”

            “The award you got for the most productive dairy farm in the state.”

            His face got red and Farmer Bob looked embarrassed. He coughed once before speaking. “I don’t remember ever getting such an award.”

            I shook my head. “Maybe they just haven’t gotten around to notifying you yet.”

            He shook his head and stood up, asking me to follow. We walked back out to the milking parlor. He led me to a back room where the enormous refrigerated milk tank stood. When we had been here before, he had explained that the thirty thousand liter tank was so well insulated that it could stand for two days in the summer without the refrigeration unit working, and it would only drop one degree Fahrenheit. On the side of the tank was a ladder leading up to a small platform. He climbed up and I followed. There was a small porthole in the top of the tank. Farmer Bob told me to look in. The tank was empty. I looked up at him, puzzled.

            “Where’s the milk?”

            He polished the glass where my face had pressed up against it. “Well, you see….I tried that kind of dairy farming for awhile but it got to be a real hassle. Do you realize that you have to wake up at six in the morning to milk cows? If that wasn’t bad enough, you have to milk them in the afternoon and at night? And it’s so messy! And the cows make a lot of noise. And the worst part about it was that the cows just wouldn’t cooperate. Look, you heard all the stuff I was telling you. No one knows more about dairy farming than me. I know what it takes to make great milk. It was those darn cows. I fretted about it for weeks until finally, one night while listening to them moo, I figured out the problem. I was doing everything right, so if the cows wouldn’t go along with it nicely, they would have to go. So I figured, the heck with it. Who needs them anyway? I don’t need cows to be the best dairy farmer around. So I got rid of them.”

            I looked at him in shock. “But I saw the cows out in the fields.”

            He laughed. “Oh, those! When I decided to close down the cow related part of the business, I had my favorite cows killed and skinned. I had them stuffed and coated with a special polymer that is guaranteed not to fade for twenty years. Each plastic cow has a little speaker with a recording of that cow’s moo, played over and over. It’s on a timer so they don’t bother my sleep, of course. The best cow in the world doesn’t last as long as mine do. I don’t have to bother taking them out in the morning and bringing them in at night. I just let them sit out there. Once in awhile I go out and rearrange them, just for kicks,”

            I pulled my editor’s note out of my pocket. “Isn’t this Happy Hooves Dairy Farm?”

            He shook his head. “Nope. This is Farmer Bob’s Cowless Milk Palace. Happy Hooves is five miles down the road but you don’t want to go there. It’s dirty and smelly and the farmer is always grumpy and tired from waking up to milk the cows. That’s not what real farming is about. If you go out there, you better take some boots because your shoes will get ruined. And the pictures will look awful. Who wants to look at some tired old farmer all covered in dirt and his dirty old cows.”

            I thanked Bob and asked him if I could use his phone. He laughed and handed me his cellular phone. “Every modern farmer should have one of these so he can take calls out in the field. You won’t find that at Happy hooves.”

            I called my editor. I explained that I had messed up and wasted my morning interviewing the wrong farmer. “I’ll head out right now and go to Happy Hooves. It’s right down the road.”

            “Forget it”, he said. “I need you to go to this address on the other side of town. I heard about this guy who is supposed to be the newest thing in spirituality. Everyone who meets him is blown away by his aura. His brochure has the most amazing quotes and the pictures are awesome. This guy has the coolest clothes and the most far out hair. He talks like an absolute expert on spirituality. It’s something our readers really need to hear about. He says there is no god and everyone should be cool and far out for their own sakes. He says you can be greedy and nasty and step on people’s toes and there is no need for guilt because guilt gets in the way of being cool and far out. This guy could be hot, maybe even become famous. Spirituality is ‘in’ these days. Get on it.”

            I hung up and grabbed my tape recorder. A story about spirituality is a hot item. Last week I did a piece on some housewife who cooked for her all of her sick neighbors. The week before I did story on a guy who never passes a beggar without giving him a quarter. No one read those articles. I almost got talked into writing an article about some lady who had never ever spoken a bad word about anyone. That would have been the ultimate snoozer. This story about the holy man was going to be hot. People love thirty-second lessons on how to be holy that have a great beat. I grabbed my camera and ran to my car. I was on it.

Charity Begins at Home

 by Adam Eliyahu and Devora Gila Berkowitz

We’re neighbors, Naftali and I, but we have little in common. He’s already married off two children, my eldest is not quite in first grade. He’s a high-profile heavy-hitter, an aggressive businessman, and I’m a misanthropic hermit, happy to be left alone. But we do share two passions,—a good cup of coffee and an even better story.

Naftali’s son, an old friend of mine, owns a cafe that brews the best espresso in Israel. And so, after a long night at work, I decided to treat myself—or let him treat me with his usual offer of a free cup of coffee. Naftali happened to be there and waved to me from the corner where he sat out of the way, watching the waiters lift wooden chairs onto the tables as they prepared to tuck in the restaurant for the night.

“So, what’s the young man doing these days?” he said in his amusing, lilting manner.

“A little fundraising for a worthy cause,” I said simply. He smiled so wide I could see the dimples peeking through his graying beard. This was a sure sign that I had given him an opening for one of his celebrated tales. Settling back into my chair, I sipped the last drops of my espresso, knowing that I was in for a good one.

            Naftali licked the whipped cream off his mustache, stroked his beard with one hand and began. “When I was in yeshiva, I had a problem with arrogance. My rabbi knew that the best way to break my pride was to send me out to collect charity, door to door. The cause was the best. A young couple, both orphans, were getting married. But he knew that it wouldn’t be enough for me just to ask for money. He wanted me to get some real-life experience, something that would strengthen my connection with Torah.

“So he sent me and my friend to the richest neighborhood, notoriously anti-religious. Walking the streets lined with luxury sedans, adorned with peyos and beard, kippah and knee-length tzitzit, we were as out of place as honey-dipped challah at the Pesach seder. The first door we knocked on was quickly slammed in our faces. At the second, a man peeked through the eye hole and asked us to wait for a minute. A moment later, he opened the door and yelled, “Get ‘em!” We heard the sound of claws clicking and sliding across marble as a Rotweiler ran right toward us. For out-of-shape yeshiva bochers, we made amazing time getting out of there.

“The next three hours were the same thing, over and over again. They threw insults at us, shouted names I cannot repeat, even spat in our faces. My friend and I were totally disheartened. We vowed that the next door would be our last.

            “We knocked and an elderly woman opened the door a few inches. Looking over the chain, I noted that her dress was down-to-earth, simple clothing and unpretentious jewelry no doubt purchased at the most exclusive shops.

“‘Ye-e-esss?’ she chimed, peering down the length of her nose at us.

“I braced myself, saying the words without feeling, glad that one way or the other, our mission was almost at an end. ‘Excuse me, madam, but we’re collecting for, uh, a young couple that is getting married next week. They are both orphans and uh, have absolutely nothing.’”

“I’ll never forget how we stared at each other for a long minute over the taut chain that kept the door from opening fully. I waited for her to say something, hurl an insult or break into angry outburst. But she remained silent, her mind wandering far away. Finally she cleared her throat. ‘P-please wait here a moment,’ she said, removing the chain, she let the door float open as she stepped back into her luxury apartment. My friend and I shot glances at each other, ready to make another run for it. We were relieved when the lady came back alone, signaling for us to follow her into the kitchen.

“‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked softly, her voice becoming warm.

“We hesitated. She sensed our apprehension. Our unspoken reluctance to eat or drink in her non-kosher house hung between us. Without waiting for our explanations or attempts at polite refusal, she poured hot water into two styrofoam cups.

            “‘Do you have a car?’ she asked.

            “I nodded, a bit confused. She disappeared back into the apartment, returning shortly with her arms full of packages. She set them down in piles near the front door; expensive linen sheets from the city’s finest stores. She went back and forth, stacking more bags and boxes in the hallway. You should have seen it—everything a new couple could possibly want: costly silverware, beautiful glassware, crystal serving dishes, fine curtains and tablecloths, silver candlesticks, all of the highest quality.

            “Then she joined us at the table with her own cup of tea served in an elegant china cup. After her first sip, she put down her tea, the cup rattling slightly against the dish.

“‘What took you so long?’ she sighed, ‘I’ve been waiting quite a while to give these things to someone. They’ve been….in the way, taking up space. You see,’ she continued, ‘my only child—my daughter—’

“She cleared her throat. ‘My daughter was engaged to be married three years ago. She was on her way back from the engagement party when her little sports car was hit by a truck. I couldn’t bring myself to return all of the lovely things I had purchased. The money was irrelevant. I felt attached to the gifts and couldn’t just get rid of them. Please pass these things on. I’m sure it’s what my daughter would have wanted.’”

            “It took us several trips to load the car and when we were finished there wasn’t an inch to spare. The older woman stood like a statue, her arms crossed over her chest, and watched us with a sad smile. The elegant packages seemed so out of place in my old junker, I was sure we looked like thieves and prayed we wouldn’t get pulled over by a cop. Without receipts for all the merchandise we would surely have been arrested. As we gathered the last of the packages, she stepped forward and nodded with satisfaction.

Naftali stopped in mid-sentence. I was eager to know how the story ended.

“Nu?” I nudged him.

“Well,” he said, stretching his long legs under the table, his hands clasped behind his head. “As we were about to pull away, she stopped us.”

“Yes?”

“‘Come back in nine months,’ she called after us, ‘I know the perfect store for baby clothes.’”