Rav Alter shook his head. “If what you are telling me isn’t true, Zevulun, it’s rechilus. And if it is true, it’s a chilul HaShem and a shandah,” Rav Alter answered, discouraged. He had hoped that, face-to-face with his old friend, they could put an end to the violence. But with the nephew in charge, there was no chance of coming to an understanding. He would have no choice but to act independently.

“Call the girl and her parents. Arrange for them to meet me in my office.”

“They’ll want to know why. What should I say?”

“Tell them the truth. It’s about Grub.”

“Is that wise?”

Rav Alter looked into the familiar face of his very efficient and practical gabbai. “Why not?”

“If the child is seeing a counselor, they’ll want to keep it quiet.”

Rav Alter smacked his palm against his forehead. “Of course they will! So maybe tell them I’ll come to see them, in their home, in the evening. Discreetly.”

“I’m sure they’ll be honored, k’vod harav.”

They were not Hasidim but actually members of the Ashkenazic, Lithuanian community, the gabbai informed him. They were surprised but honored to invite the head of their community into their home.

“They are simple people—he has a shoe store, and she is a housewife. They have three children. Their eldest daughter, Menucha Sarah, is four years younger than Shaindele.”

“That makes her how old?”

“Thirteen, k’vod harav.”

“A baby!” He sniffed. “What do you hear is the reason for the counselor?”

“Her father has a heart condition. Times have been very hard for them financially. Her mother went to work to supplement their income. The children are a little lost.”

“What did you tell them about why we are meeting?”

“I didn’t.”

He sighed. That evening, he walked to a large apartment house in the poorer section of Boro Park and rang the bell.

A thin, pale, sickly man with a large black velvet yarmulke opened the door. He seemed overawed. “Such an honor for us, k’vod harav!” he gushed, ushering him into the modest apartment.

The place, poorly furnished, had clearly been scrubbed until it shone, the windows sparkling, the old bookcase polished to a dull shine. Light refreshments in the best Sabbath dishes were laid out upon the dining room table.

Rav Alter sat down in the easy chair they offered him, facing the parents, who took a seat opposite on the worn sofa.

“I understand you are going through a difficult time. You know there are funds available, free loans. I’d be happy to arrange that. Also grants,” he added delicately.

The parents exchanged embarrassed looks.

“Many thanks, k’vod harav. But praise be to God, we are managing.”

“I am happy to hear that, but that is not the reason I came to see you,” he hastened to add.

They nodded, relieved, their eyes questioning.