She didn’t look at Rabbi Schulman. From a single glance, Rina knew Peter had told him. One part of her felt angry and betrayed. But the other side whispered relief. The emotional pain was too much to bear alone, too much to comprehend. Why was happiness always ripped away from her? After Yitzchak had died, she thought she’d never love again. But Hashem knew better. She met Peter, and she did love again. It was a miracle.

Then this.

Why did He feel the need to constantly test her? Wasn’t her unwavering faith enough?

Without her realizing it, tears had formed—hot and bitter. Still staring at the wall, she said, “He shouldn’t have told you. It wasn’t his place to tell you.”

“I knew something was very wrong, Rina Miriam,” the rav said softly. “Akiva simply told me the specifics.” He paused. “Perhaps it was my fault. I asked Akiva detailed questions. I apologize for prying into your life.”

Rina didn’t answer. Now, instead of being angry, she felt guilty that she had made Rabbi Schulman apologize. Weak and sick, pain encircling her like a tight girdle, she wanted to sleep for a hundred years.

Schulman said, “I would like to wish you a refuah shelenah, Rina Miriam—a very speedy recovery. I am sorry for your pain. It is confusing when unfortunate things happen to nice people. It puts us at odds with our sense of justice.”

Rina turned to the rosh yeshiva. The man was in his late seventies, and his age was finally beginning to show. His skin was wrinkled and mottled, but his dark eyes were as clear as ever. He sat stoop-shouldered, legs crossed, his liver-spotted hands clasped and resting on his knee, fingers holding the rim of his homburg. He wore his usual black suit and tie and a starched white shirt. His beard was white, as was his hair. Atop his head was a black silk skullcap.

Rav Schulman was a calm man, a calming man—his voice, his presence. No matter what life demanded of him, he always had enough time for those who needed him. Rina said, “I suppose this is a minor setback in the scheme of things.” She sighed, then grimaced as her wound throbbed. Her voice had come back, but her throat still felt raw. “It isn’t the Holocaust.”

“No, it is not the Shoah. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t entitled to your grief, Rina Miriam. I lived through the Shoah; I lost my only son. Yet I still become frustrated when I misplace my wallet. So what does that say about human nature?”

Rina sank into her pillow and stared at the ceiling. “I feel petty for feeling so…bitter.”

“Your operation was far from petty. Your bitterness is very understandable.” Schulman licked his lips. “Are you in pain? Do you need anything?”