Such a thoughtful gift, she thought, her eyes sparkling with tears. He’d forgiven her; forgiven her ignorance and all the trouble she’d caused him with the neighbors. He’d forgiven her for holding back, keeping secrets for two weeks. He wasn’t angry. He is a saint, she thought. And I am worthless to have doubted him and our life together. I must be stronger, for his sake. He deserves it. He went against the world for my sake, and for his sake, I can sacrifice a little. Why would she want to do anything to hurt such a wonderful man? She had signed up for this. She’d known exactly what she was getting into. She would just try harder.

At that moment, it all seemed so possible. Curled up in his arms, the horrible separateness dissolved, becoming blurred and indistinct, almost as if it had never been. It was simply in the past, she told herself. Besides, every other woman in the haredi world seemed to manage with it just fine. She didn’t think about Zissele, the first wife, the one who had not managed at all.

She wouldn’t think about this now. What was the point? They had two weeks together! Two whole weeks. She would wait. Maybe it wouldn’t bother her so much the next time. Maybe she’d get used to it, like she’d gotten used to putting away her cell phone on Friday night until sundown on Shabbos. The way she’d gotten used to wearing long skirts, and shirts with long sleeves, and stockings even in summer. The way she’d gotten used to how her hair covering pressed in on her scalp and temples, giving her a headache. It was possible, wasn’t it? There was no point in upsetting him now, no point at all, when it was possible that for his sake she might get used to it. She would think about it some other time. She would wait and see, she told herself, pressing her cheek into his bare shoulder and breathing him in.

11

AN ELDERLY ROMANCE

Close to Chanukah, the holiday of light, the darkness finally overtook Rav Alter. His beloved wife of almost fifty years passed away quietly in her sleep. Rabbi Alter was at her bedside, and when she took her last ragged breath, he sobbingly ripped the collar of his suit jacket, the traditional sign of mourning.

The funeral was held immediately, as is the custom, and word of mouth spread the time and place. It seemed that everyone in Boro Park knew within the hour. Like one big family, the inhabitants of the crowded apartment houses and little brownstones put aside their normal activities and made the pilgrimage to fulfill the mitzvah of comforting the bereaved.

For Fruma Esther, it was more than an obligation. She had known Malka Alter almost all her life, having grown up in nearby streets and gone to the same Bais Yaakov.