Had he been, perhaps, less attractive—say, five foot three, with a mousy-colored short beard and glasses—perhaps Shaindele Lehman would have reached the same conclusion that most right-thinking citizens of Boro Park had already arrived at about Duvie: that he was a yeshiva bum who had neither respect for his parents nor fear of God. There was no other explanation for a boy who should be diligently poring over the Talmud in Lakewood choosing instead to pour tomato sauce over pizza dough while imitating Michael Jackson dance moves in Moishy’s on Fourteenth Avenue.

While at the time she did not consciously realize this, her defiance of this common Boro Park wisdom signaled a wide-ranging and dramatic turning point for Shaindele Lehman, a silent rejection of everything that had been drummed into her since childhood. While this had yet to find any tangible expression, it was an upheaval in the making that would soon upend her life in ways she could not have imagined.

“Vus machstu, Yankele?”

Through the earsplitting screech of the dirty old F train to Brooklyn, Yaakov heard the diminutive of his name that no one who knew him ever used. He was Reb or Rav Yaakov to those who were his friends and acquaintances. Standing in the unbearably crowded train, he lifted his heavy, exhausted head to search for the speaker. What he saw was a vaguely familiar face he couldn’t quite place. Someone he knew from shul? A neighbor, perhaps?

“Feivel, from the chair gmach.” The man chuckled, noticing his confusion.

The man from across the street who had loaned them chairs for the shiva. Yaakov’s face reddened. So now they were the best of friends? Yankele? He felt his temper rise, forcing him to summon all that remained of his self-control after a soul-shriveling first week at a job he had never wanted.

“Shalom, Reb Feivel,” he answered wearily.

Someone in front of them vacated a seat, exiting the train. Yaakov eyed it longingly, but before he could make a move, Feivel swiftly settled himself into it, smiling up without apology.

Yaakov shifted from foot to foot, giving him a weak smile in return.

“My wife tells me your family are lovers of music,” he began with a snicker.

Yaakov looked at his smirking face, only half hearing him. “What?”

“That you love music!” the man shouted above the din of the train.

Yaakov stared at him, bewildered.

His eyebrows shot up. “Nu, you don’t know? You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

He shook his head. “The whole neighborhood is talking, Yankele.”

Now there could be no mistake. The use of the unfamiliar nickname was meant as an insult. Yaakov stiffened.

“May God bless you, my friend, but I’m not sure what you are trying to say.”