IN-DEPTH FEATURES
Rochel, Our Youngest Daughter

FICTION - A Parable

The large house, which bustled with life, vitality, chatter, frays, elbow rubbing and smiles, had emptied.

The spacious rooms weren't deserted in one day. It was a long process, which had extended over many years -- a process which takes place in every house whose owner has brought children into the world, raised them and led them to the chuppah, one after the other.

When the Gvirs and their youngest daughter Rochel returned from Gitty's wedding, a large and empty house awaited them. The key turned in the lock. The door opened wide -- and silence greeted them.

Shifra Gvir collapsed onto the sofa in the living room, and intermittent signs of satisfaction and sorrow appeared on her face. Rochel sat down beside her and took off her shoes. Over and over again, Moshe Gvir, the head of the emptying household said, "Shehechiyonu vekiyemonu vehegi'onu lazman hazeh." His wife and daughter responded over and over again with "omeins," which were echoed by the walls.

"Boruch Hashem it was a beautiful wedding -- lebedik, moving. Boruch Hashem that we were zocheh," Moshe Gvir continuously told his wife and daughter, as he mentally reviewed the evening, which had brought him so much nachas and honor.

The wedding had taken place in an elegant hall, commensurate with the family's financial level and social status, and many guests filled the hall. His sons and sons-in-law, all of whom were outstanding avreichim, danced with him in a united and solid family circle. Whether he wanted to or not, he could not fail to see the admiring glances that the guests directed at the wonderful family he had merited to build.

Shifra's expression indicated that she wanted to say something. Her mouth opened and closed erratically, and when she finally decided to speak, she said what was on her heart: "Boruch Hashem. I thank Hashem with all my heart. This is the ninth child we have merited to lead to the chuppah. I am so happy. We are so fortunate.

"I am not ashamed to say that I feel a small twitch in my heart, and that there is an empty cavity in the very same heart that is so filled with joy. I'm not complaining. I'm very thankful to Hashem Yisborach. But I can't ignore that pinch of the heart which aches over what was and won't return. Another chick has flown the nest. The house is emptying."

The reaction to her words were nods of assent and empathy, because those words which had been locked in her heart, had also been locked in the hearts of the two seated beside her. When Rochel saw that her mother was speaking so openly, she said: "You waited so long for Gitty to get married, but deep down I knew that at the end of that day, only the three of us -- you, Abba and I -- would return to the large house. I knew that I would go to sleep in the large room alone. I knew that the night lamp that Gitty liked to turn on, wouldn't bother me again. The window would be wide open, the way I always wanted it to be, not closed like Gitty wanted. The room would be arranged precisely to my taste."

Rochel was happy to vent those thoughts which had weighed heavily on her seventeen-year-old heart. Had she looked carefully at her mother, she would have noticed the glistening tears which streaked her cheeks and the hand which quickly wiped away their impression.

"When a child gets married, the drawers of a parent's heart fill with happiness, joy and delight. But somewhere, there is a lower and secret drawer which contains a small ache, a hidden sadness and a twinge of longing for what was and will never again be. It's natural; it's permissible. All parents experience such pain. All of us. But one has to place that drawer and all of its contents as low down as possible, and on top of it to pile the drawers which are filled with happiness and joy, and not the opposite," Shifra said.

Those words not only strengthened Rochel, but also Moshe Gvir, who could actually feel the drops of solace as they trickled down to his bottom drawer. Rochel smiled, and this time she didn't try to hide a brash tear which streamed freely down her cheek. After all, the pain didn't conflict with the happiness.

Suddenly, her parents fixed their gazes on her. Their expressions were totally alike, because the very same thought had crossed their minds. "It's good that you are still here, dear Rochel, and that someone will remain in our nest for a few more years. We won't give you up so quickly," Moshe Gvir said.

At that moment, Rochel's future was determined. The shidduchim business would make headway a bit differently in her case -- not like it had proceeded with her brothers and sisters

They all went to sleep, trying to douse the corners of their hearts with the pleasant flavors of gratitude and nachas, leaving only one tiny corner where the feelings of longing and lack are given permission to enter even during times of simchah.

*

The shadchonim began to knock on that door -- the very same door which had opened to them with honor with the nine children who had preceded Rochel. All vied for the privilege of making the shidduch for the last child of Moshe Gvir.

Moshe Gvir was one of those rare people who appreciated the value of shadchonim. He also took the trouble to tell them -- sometimes by paying them even before the plate was broken. He claimed that if you want a shadchan to show you his wares without his giving up or losing hope, you have to encourage him and his pocket with advance payments.

Many offers were made, and Moshe Gvir could have opened a large yeshiva for students all of whom were bright, intelligent and well-versed in Torah. But just as he never thought of opening a yeshiva for all those young men suggested to him, so he never thought of taking those proposals seriously. His Rochel was a young girl who still needed mommy and daddy -- and whose mommy and daddy still needed her.

The choice proposals weren't even jotted down in places where people generally jot down such information. They went in one ear and out the other. "She's too young. She's barely eighteen. Let her grow up," Moshe would tell the crowd of shadchonim, while a voice in his heart would affirm: "And let us remain with one bird in the nest just a bit longer."

The thought that Rochel might soon establish her own home and that their house would remain totally quiet and empty, intimidated him. Not that gleeful voices were lacking there. On Shabbosim and holidays, a massive throng flocked to the house and a diminutive aliya leregel took place. The children arrived with their own children, and one could shep nachas. But when everyone returned home, the large house would remain empty.

Shadchonim, who were quite experienced in such arguments, waved their hands and stated their opinions: "Ridiculous. A girl is ready for marriage the moment the right boy comes along." Then they would proceed from evasions to tachlis and present dazzling offers.

Just as Moshe Gvir noticed the shadchonim's strange practice of not paying attention to such excuses as: "She has to grow up. It's not time yet," he also pretended that he was listening to their offers. But their words and opinions made no impression on him. Moshe Gvir's heart and ears collaborated. His heart refused to listen. His ears cooperated.

The older Rochel became, the longer grew the list of outstanding bochurim, both from Eretz Yisroel and abroad, who were offered. Don't think that the steady flow of offers was only because her father was so wealthy and generous. Rochel had an excellent name in her own right. She was well known for her outstanding character and her talents. Of course, we shouldn't overlook the fact that they had a home where Torah and greatness joined together, and where excellent and truly G-d-fearing sons and sons-in-law graced the table and studied Torah with peace of mind.

When Rochel celebrated her nineteenth birthday, the shadchonim celebrated their victory. That's it. Nineteen is an age at which, according to all opinions, Rochel Gvir was ready for marriage. But they quickly discovered that they had erred. At least in her father's opinion, the time still hadn't arrived.

All had expected that finding a shidduch for the last daughter of the Gvir family would be easy. She would get the best boy in the yeshiva world. Her father would give the young family an apartment, and her future husband would be able to study undisturbed like all of the other sons-in-law and sons of the Gvir family.

"It'll go easy with her," friends said. "She doesn't have the problems we have. Our parents are struggling with payments for the apartments of their other children. When there's a possibility to give, the chosson is easily found."

Yet surprisingly, the dazzling chosson still wasn't found, for one simple reason: Rochel's parents still hadn't looked for him. Every telephone which announced the engagement of one of Rochel's friends, would pluck at a sensitive string in the heart of the indifferent father.

What was surprising was that Mrs. Gvir was a full partner to her husband on this matter. However, while he was direct in his refusal to listen to offers, she resorted to a different tactic: criticizing. Every shidduch which was offered to Rochel had to undergo her mother's scathing scrutiny. As a result, time passed, and the shadchonim continued to offer their wares, but there was no real interest.

When there is no demand, the offers eventually vanish one by one, and the shadchonim pursue those who seek their services and are genuinely interested in their wares.

In the end, the longed-for peace and quiet descended on the home of the Gvirs. No longer did the shadchonim who wanted to steal their daughter from the nest bother them, and Moshe Gvir could breath freely in the interludes between lone offers which were proposed at intervals of many days.

However when he looked carefully at his daughter, who would leave for work early in the morning, her pocketbook on her shoulder, and return in the afternoon to her private room, while most of her friends were already situated in their own homes, he would see worried lines on her face, and his heart would give a twinge. "Don't worry, my Rochele, we'll find you the best boy. You still need us, our spoiled mezhinke. How will you manage when you get married? During the vacation, Mommy will teach you, step by step, and then we'll begin to think seriously," he would tell her, only in his mind.

But not everyone speaks only in the mind. A case in point was Asher, the Gvir's oldest son, who began to prod his father: "What are you waiting for with Rochel? I heard that they offered you Levi. He's a very special boy. What's wrong with him?"

Moshe Gvir raised an eyebrow and furrowed his forehead as if he heard that name for the first time. To Mrs. Gvir, Asher's mother, it wasn't new and she reacted angrily: "Did you hear that his mother is also special? She's so special that none of her daughters-in-law ever visit her."

Asher retreated in confusion. No, he hadn't heard that. But he was not about to give up. He plodded through a long list of other offers to which his father said "I never heard of them," and on which his mother tacked all sorts of flaws and shortcomings.

Asher retreated to his home, having been deflated at the discussion table. He wondered how he and his sisters and brothers had gotten engaged so quickly and easily, while Rochel's Red Sea was taking so long to split.

*

One day, when Rochel returned from teaching, she bumped into Tami. Truth to tell, Rochel generally preferred to cross the street diagonally and, just to be safe, to poke her nose into a book, not to meet Tami. Encounters with Tami left Rochel with a very unpleasant feeling. But Tami wasn't the type to let an opportunity slip through her fingers.

"Hi, Rochel," she called out from a distance, as she briskly pushed her baby carriage toward Rochel, who was crossing the street diagonally.

"What's new? What's up?" Rochel asked, her voice betraying her confusion.

"What's new? Boruch Hashem, everything's the same. I'm busy as a bee with the kids and the house. You know how it is, don't you? Dudi started Gan Bella. Yes, Bella who was our kindergarten teacher when we were small. My, how time flies. Actually, I really wanted to ask you what's new?"

Rochel's cheeks grew pink. But people like Tami don't notice such trivia.

"Everything's the same. I'm working and enjoying myself, boruch Hashem," she answered, feeling that her briefcase was growing heavier by the moment.

"What about tachlis?" Tami asked in a very tachlisdik manner.

Rochel pointed her finger in an upward direction. "Everything is from Above and I have no complaints," she whispered to Tami what she whispered to herself morning, noon and night.

"That's obvious. But a person has to make an effort too. One must do his part, and Hashem will do the rest," Tami self-righteously replied, and also pointed to Shomayim. Rochel flashed a smile which was 25 percent consent and 75 percent bewilderment.

"You know Rochel," Tami suddenly said in a particularly candid tone, "many years ago, when we first started out in shidduchim I was really jealous of you. Actually all of us were jealous of you, and thought that you would be the first to get engaged, and that everyone would run after your money. I come from a house full of girls. Four of my sisters had already gotten married, and when I came of age, our private Kinneret was low. But see how Hashgocho works. I met my husband, and we agreed. When our parents met to discuss the financial aspects there was such a pickle that it seemed as if the whole thing would go up in smoke. But I guess that in the end I was worth more than an apartment."

As Tami finished her revelation, a large smile spread over her face. "You see, its impossible to know what the future will bring. People are shortsighted and limited in their perception," she summed up, while Rochel observed bitterly that there are people who are obtuse and who sometimes hurl arrows which hurt when they land between your eyes -- and how, they hurt.

*

Tzinterbaum never despaired. Add to this a spoonful of stubbornness, a sprinkling of pepper, stirred by a sharp and cynical tongue, and there you have it: a successful shadchan.

With untold persistence, Tzinterbaum continued to call all of the refuseniks and procrastinators on his list, utilizing the age-old practice of not letting the other side get a word in until he had finished saying what was on his mind. Some may have tried to get in a word edgewise, or to express an opinion and add on a bit of information. But very quickly they would discover that this was not a normal conversation, but rather a long monologue full of descriptions, information, advice, jibes, telephone numbers of ramim and shadchan- stories which sounded a little far-fetched.

Tzinterbaum didn't pay any attention to what the other side was saying. For him, talking to a recorded announcement or an answering service was the same as proposing a shidduch. It was actually preferable, because an answering service never tries to poke in a word in the middle. When he had finished haranguing, a short cough would be heard, to signal to those on the other end of the line that they could state their reactions.

People tended to criticize this unpleasant habit. However, they figured: if his peculiar habits produce such excellent results, then never mind!

Tzinterbaum was one of those who did not desert Moshe Gvir. With noteworthy tenacity, he would call him again and again, and speak to the receiver, without relating to the verbiage which came from it. Only when he had finished his harangue would he listen impatiently to the boring reaction of the other side. Throwing in a few biting remarks at Moshe Gvir's expense, he would conclude with the classic statement which had become his professional trademark: "You have twenty-four hours in which to think it over and check it out. Afterwards, I'll call you to hear what's cooking."

Gvir's answer to "what's cooking" was always the same.

It seemed that the chap was simply not yet into shidduchim. But on one of those evenings when the precious time of Mr. Gvir was wasted on a conversation with the shadchan, Tzinterbaum threw out a new name. And, wonder of wonders, where others had failed, this one succeeded. Moshe Gvir began to display an interest in the name which entered his ears.

"Paley? Where's he from?"

"Yeshiva X."

"No, I mean from which city?"

"Ir hakodesh."

"The son of that man from the bakery?"

"And if so, so what! Do you know what a diamond he is?"

"Paley, the one who has a son-in-law Cohen and another Levi?"

"Hmmm . . . ," the shadchan mused. "Since when are you so familiar with such details?"

Moshe Gvir preferred to ignore the comment. "Well tell me, haven't they just married off a daughter and now have a son to marry off? "

The shadchan nearly flipped in amazement.

"Great, I guess your hard disc isn't completely out of commission. Wait a moment. Did someone else propose that one to you?" he asked with the jealousy that exists among all members of the same profession.

"No!" -- a cold, flat and angry "no."

"Then I'm suggesting it," Tzinterbaum closed, his voice betraying his excitement. At last he had succeeded in getting a word out of Gvir.

"Nothing to talk about," Moshe Gvir said dryly, with the same voice in which he always declared: "She's still young, and we're not into shidduchim yet."

"Why?" Tzinterbaum roared from the depths of his heart.

"I have a cheshbon with them," Gvir blurted out, seeming sorry for his slip of the tongue, as evidenced by the fact that all of Tzinterbaum's attempts to ascertain the nature of that mysterious account met a blank wall.

The conversation ended with Tzinterbaum's deep sigh, whose purpose was to convey to Mr. Gvir how greatly he pitied him for having such mishigassen.

Moshe Gvir angrily approached a large wooden chest where many notebooks were securely stashed away. Some of them were yellow and wrinkled, having withered away in the drawer, while their younger counterparts were relatively fresh. With a trembling hand he took them out and retreated to his room.

He opened a fat notebook whose cover bore the name "Asher" in Mr. Gvir's handwriting, which had undergone as many changes as Mr. Gvir himself had undergone. Leafing through the notebook, he found the name he wanted: Paley.

The information -- except for the father's trade, which he didn't like -- sounded perfect. However underneath the information, the words: "They weren't interested," appeared in small letters.

Next please, and Esty's notebook was opened. Actually he didn't need the notebook, because he recalled clearly the offer they had so wanted and on which they had pinned so much hope. Aha! The son of Paley, the finest yeshiva student in the country. But once again, the Paleys had rejected the offer.

Now to Arele's notebook -- Arele, the star of the house. Who didn't want their outstanding son? Everyone wanted him -- except for the Paley family who also had an outstanding daughter. Everyone who had heard that idea had said: "Great!" -- everyone except the Paleys.

Eli was also offered one of the Paley girls. Amazing! The two families had kids of corresponding ages and the on-duty shadchan would always try to match up the two families. That time as well, the result was the same. The Paley family did not want to make a match with the prestigious Gvirs.

When Gitty was suggested a Paley boy, Mr. Gvir waived his honor and sent someone to propose the match a second time. But that abortive attempt failed and Mr. Gvir paid dearly for his efforts -- at least insofar as his personal pride was concerned.

It was very bewildering. Over the years, they simply couldn't understand why the Paley family refused to make a match with the Gvir family. The Gvir children were sought by others, yet the Paley family rejected them time after time. The shadchonim offered only strange reasons for the refusal of Mr. Paley, a very simple Jew, to make matches with the children of the wealthy Moshe Gvir.

Moshe closed the notebooks and put them away. There were nine notebooks. One was still missing.

One evening, Tzinterbaum called Gvir and, in a voice with which one usually announces a shidduch which has been finalized, said: "The Paleys agree. As far as they are concerned, it is possible to proceed."

He was met with a long silence. After Tzinterbaum's many efforts to get a word out of him, Moshe Gvir finally replied, "But the Gvirs don't agree." His voice took on the triumphant tone of voice of a person who has finally taken vengeance on an enemy, utilizing all of the delicate nuances at his command.

""Why not? Why don't the Gvirs agree to an offer which every Jewish father would be interested in hearing? Every single family from the north to the south, even as far as Yeruchom and Tifrach, is after Tuvia Paley, the outstanding illui who has many other excellent traits as well."

Mr. Gvir reacted with another long, loaded silence. But since it is well-known that silence is an admission, Tzinterbaum decided that the silence was consent.

The conversation ended with the usual spiel, and with the slam of the receiver by Mr. Gvir.

Thoughts like: "Now they want us. They want Rochel. But what about Asher, Esti, Arele and Gitty? What was wrong with us and our kids?" crossed Moshe's mind and formed a barrier of anger made of snags, trivia and pride. That barrier blinded his common sense and silenced the voice of truth which said that in shidduchim one doesn't make such cheshbonos.

Tzinterbaum was very upset when he later learned that Gvir had refused. He enlisted all of Gvir's sons and sons-in-law in the battle. All of them without exception -- Asher, Chaim Dovid, Eli, Arele, Shloimi, Srulik, Akiva, Yitzchok and Dovele -- who were already quite concerned about the situation, rushed over to Tzinterbaum and listened carefully while he told them about their father's strange reaction. All of them tried to track down information about the young man, and attempted to figure out what their father didn't like about the him. However, they came up only with very positive information: the boy was simply a gem.

They rushed to Moshe Gvir to report on the wonders of the Paley boy. Even Yitzchok, Gitty's shy and refined husband, cast aside his reserve and spoke enthusiastically and confidently. But to their great dismay, they met a blank wall.

Moshe Gvir didn't tell anyone the reason for his refusal, because deep down, where justice and its pals nestle, he also knew that in shidduchim one doesn't make such cheshbonos. "Sometimes I don't want and sometimes you don't want, because that's what Hashem has determined. What's the use of holding grudges in an issue steered by Hashgocho?"

But those voices were swallowed up by others which recalled the past. When those voices were joined by the fear of the emptying nest, the result was refusal.

*

The orchestra blared and the instruments went all out in order to gladden the celebrating throng. The drum showed its prowess with rhythmic beats. Overseeing this raucous labor were a number of maestros in well-ironed uniforms. Having stopped their ears with unseen plugs, they abandoned the guests to the noise.

Miriam was one of the guests at this simchah and, since the clamor of the orchestra and the beating of the drum threatened to damage her eardrums, she rushed to a side corner of the hall.

She felt strange in the large hall where she didn't know a soul. She had no real connection to the simchah. She didn't know the bride or the mechuteiniste. She wasn't a relative, a neighbor or a friend. Rather she was one of those who go to certain halls at certain times in order to look at a certain girl, for well-known purposes.

She did not like the young lady she saw. She did not think the girl suited her outstanding son. Even though she knew well that appearances are not determining, she also knew that the face is a mirror of the inner essence, and Miriam wanted a refined, unostentatious girl for her son. She took another look at the girl and, when she decided for sure that she wasn't the one she had prayed for, she made ready to leave. However at that precise moment, she noticed another girl who aroused her interest. The girl's simplicity, modesty and entire appearance coincided with her aspirations. She made such a refined and noble impression; she reminded her of her son. Miriam asked one of the guests for the name of the girl. "Rochel Gvir," the guest answered and continued on her way.

Rochel Gvir. The name sounded very familiar to her. Then her heart sank in disappointment. Yes, the Gvirs are the ones who didn't want their diamond -- the only ones who ever refused them. Why, they didn't know. "Perhaps because of my husband's simple occupation?" a small voice within her heart asked. But a stronger voice responded immediately: "Every type of work is respectable, especially when it pays for the tuition of a talmid chochom like the one we merited."

Even though she no longer stood near the drums, their beats still bothered her and she rushed out of the hall.

*

The orchestra blared and the instruments went all out in order to gladden the celebrating throng. The drum showed its prowess with rhythmic beats. Overseeing this raucous labor were a number of maestros in well-ironed uniforms. Having stopped their ears with unseen plugs, they abandoned the guests to the noise.

Moshe Gvir was one of the guests at this simchah and, since the clamor of the orchestra and the beating of the drum threatened to damage his eardrums, he rushed to a side corner of the hall.

His distance from the circles of dancers enabled him to see all of the guests. Yeshiva students who had come with reservoirs of energy worked hard and perspired profusely in their efforts to gladden the excited young man in the new suit and hat who was the chosson.

Moshe Gvir's esteem of them was a bit reserved. True, it was very nice of them to make such efforts to dance around the chosson, especially since everyone who gladdens a chosson and kallah has the merit of five kolos. However, there was quite a gap between the intention of that ma'amar Chazal and the clammy and crumpled appearance of the boys.

None of them found favor in his eyes, even though he had actually begun to look at them from the perspective of a father of a grownup daughter. Recently he had begun to listen to shidduchim offers with half an ear because, according to all opinions, Rochel had come of age quite a while ago and it was impossible to keep on ignoring the knocks. But he had always disliked ostentatious behavior. His other daughters had married refined and quiet young men, none of whom was a "chevraman."

He had raised his sons to be moderate and judicious, just like he was, and the apples fell very close to the tree.

Wait a minute. What about that tall boy in the outer circle who was dancing and gladdening the chosson without overdoing it? His movements were refined. He didn't cavort wildly. He didn't prance like a horse or skip like a goat, but appeared so dignified and noble. Ah, that was the type of boy he wanted for his Rochel.

Sometimes words escape one's mouth without the permission of the one who has uttered them. Later on he would ask himself who it was who had approached one of the dancing boys, tapped him on the shoulder and, pointing to the refined man, asked who he was.

That deed resulted in the following revelation: that gentle and refined young man who was so different from his cavorting friends was Tuvia Paley!

*

Sometimes, an offer repeats itself, over and over again. A shadchan from the south, and a childhood friend suddenly remember you. Then a relative who is now a rosh yeshiva and an elderly aunt who knows you, join together and make the very same offer.

Under normal circumstances, one pursues the issue further and checks out the proposal very thoroughly because, if four people, each one separately, have thought of a shidduch, there might be something to it. That is approximately what happened to the Gvirs.

Tzinterbaum joined the list which included a cousin, a brother-in-law and an old family acquaintance and if he, Moshe Gvir, could ignore the first and evade the second, the third constituted a chazokoh and intruded on his conscience which had something to say on the issue such as: there's really no good reason to reject so special an offer.

The stubbornness was broken on erev Pesach when Moshe Gvir went to bake matzos. Baking matzos with his very own hands was a family custom. He would join a group of people who were enthusiastic over the mitzvah, as white, thin flour dust danced in the air.

Moshe Gvir gingerly kneaded the dough into thin and round layers. "Hurry up, hurry up, you have eighteen minutes. One must take care that the matzos don't machmitz. Don't read "matzos" but "mitzvos," and a mitzvah which comes your way should be not be delayed (al tachmitzeno)," the bearded young man opposite him said, partially to himself partially to those near him.

The words "mitzvoh habo'oh leyodcho al tachmitzenoh" hung in the air and reached the ears of Moshe Gvir who was involved in making certain that his matzos wouldn't machmitz.

"Mitzvoh habo'oh leyodcho al tachmitzenoh." Well, what about a shidduch? May one machmitz a shidduch which comes your way?

Before beginning to bake matzos, a person must brush off all of the crumbs which cling to him and clean his hands very carefully. One must don special clothing and hurry so that the matzos won't machmitz. The entire procedure must take no more than eighteen minutes. After eighteen minutes of work, one must clean the vessels used so that no remnants of the dough he had previously made cling to it, rendering the next batch chometz.

Rochel was well over eighteen and he must brush away the vestiges of his grudge so that he would not machmitz the opportunity.

At that precise moment, Moshe Gvir removed his mantle of pride, shook off all of the crumbs of small- mindedness, and parted for good from those painful thoughts about an emptying nest. That very evening he called Tzinterbaum, who was overjoyed, and the shidduch began to gain impetus.

By the Seder night, when in all Jewish homes a blessing over the matzoh was recited, the Gvir and Paley families could nearly make a blessing over a finalized shidduch.

On chol hamoed the plate was broken.

However not only a plate was broken, but so were the middos which had divided and the barriers which had obstructed. Anger dissipated and fear evaporated.

And then happiness filled all of the drawers in the hearts, except for one hidden corner in which a small ache, a hidden sadness and a twinge of longing were given permission to enter, even during times of simchah.

May it be in a gutte sho'oh!