Wife of the deeply respected posek Rav Aryeh, Basha had been in school with Fruma Esther from kindergarten through graduation from Bais Yaakov Seminary. Both coming from established and respected Boro Park families with long lists of distinguished rabbinical forebears, they were top merchandise in all the matchmakers’ bride pools that summer and months before. Both had been offered and had accepted Grade A candidates—long-bearded young scholars with reputations for brilliance in Talmud study who, the matchmakers assured their parents, were worth every penny of the colossal financial settlement they needed to provide for years of continued study. Within two weeks of each other, and several weeks shy of their eighteenth birthdays, both had gotten engaged.

Their friendship had become even stronger through the years as they helped each other survive the difficulties of financially supporting their husbands through kollel and giving birth to many children. There was no one Fruma Esther admired and respected more.

She took out the cell phone her family had insisted on buying and teaching her to use following her scandalous, solo journey to a New York hospital for an eye operation that had left her stranded and in need of a secular hospital volunteer to get home. Now the phone helped everyone to keep track of her comings and goings. Even her daughters in Israel had taken to calling her a few times a week on it just to check there were no new surprises. Despite the rabbis’ harsh condemnation of cell phones, almost everyone in Boro Park had one now, connected—of course!—to the kosher internet that pre-blocked all unacceptable websites.

“Basha, I need to speak to you. You have maybe a minute?”

“Such a question! Talk.”

“No, I’ll come over. You’re home this morning?”

“I’m baking for Shabbos.”

Although the Sabbath was four days away, this did not surprise Fruma Esther. After all, Basha had ten children—all married except for one—numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren as well as a husband active in the effort to encourage secular Jews to become more religious. As a result, Basha’s table regularly seated thirty or more family and guests for the traditional Friday night dinner and Saturday afternoon lunch. To do it properly, you needed almost a week with all the food buying and preparation.

They sat companionably on the worn sofa in the sparsely furnished living room, dwarfed by massive wooden bookcases filled with holy volumes.

“The phone doesn’t stop ringing, Basha.”

The other woman sighed. “It’s about Leah and the music, right?”

“Music?”

Basha studied her friend’s genuinely puzzled face. “So you didn’t hear even what it’s all about?”

“I don’t listen to loshon hara.”

Basha shook her head. “You have no choice.”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t know what’s going on, how can you help her?”

“She needs help?” Her voice quivered.

Basha nodded.

“But loshon hara … it’s forbidden, Basha.”