A little old man walked through the open doors, his overcoat dragging on the floor, his black hat too large and slightly askew. His demeanor suggested disorganization. He had a long white beard and spoke to Rina in a high-pitched voice. His Hebrew was thick with a Moroccan accent.

“No one is here?”

Rina shrugged.

The old man rubbed his hands together. “You haven’t seen anyone?”

Again, Rina shrugged innocence.

“You are waiting for someone?”

“Yes.”

“Your son?”

“My husband.”

The old man took out a card. “Maybe he would like to give us a small donation.”

The card told Rina he was working for Yeshiva Rev Yosef Caro. He was a meshulach—someone who goes around collecting money for an institution or a poor family, then takes a cut of whatever he collects. Most Jews called them shnorrers.

The man said, “You can make a donation, too.”

Rina smiled wearily. “I have your card. Thank you.”

The man said, “I go inside. Check the bait midrash.”

Bait instead of bais. Sephardic pronunciation. Rita told him to go check. The man left.

Another ten minutes crept by. Again, Rina thought about Honey Klein, about Arik and Dalia Yalom. Two boys suddenly orphaned, four other children without a father. Her mind drifted with faraway thoughts, her emotions sinking into a whirlpool of tragedy. Tears had formed in her eyes.

No, this wouldn’t do at all.

She went behind the desk, through the door, kissing the mezuzah as she went into a hallway.

Lots of doors muffling noise. The air here was warmer, but a great deal more stale. Gravel-voiced men speaking of the intricacies of Jewish civil law. Rina put her ear to one door, then opened it. Empty—devoid of people but filled with folding chairs, the space inside not much bigger than a walk-in closet. A window had been opened, allowing a tiny draft of fresh air to percolate.

At the end of the hallway was a staircase with tiny stone steps worn smooth by traffic. Rina held the wrought-iron handrail and walked down a flight.

The basement held a communal kitchen and dining hall. Wafting through the air was the smell of onions and garlic sweating with grease. The lunchroom was empty, the doors locked. But heat came through the walls and warmed the bottom layer of air a couple of degrees. That was good, Rina thought. The boys could eat in comfort during the winter months.

She climbed back up two stories. The bais midrash was the biggest room on the floor. Even at a distance, Rina could hear the shouting and arguing of boys engaged in learning. The bais haknesset—the yeshiva’s sanctuary—no doubt occupied the other big room. Rina didn’t go inside in case there was a prayer minyan going on. She didn’t want to disturb anyone. Checking her watch, she saw that only five minutes had passed. She decided to explore the two floors above.