Too many compliments in one sentence. Shraga nods his thanks and waits for the other shoe to drop

There isn’t always a story when a bochur joins the yeshivah halfway through summer zeman. But six years as a rebbi has taught Shraga that there usually is.

“Mordy Weiss,” the boy says shortly, when Shraga goes over to him after shiur to welcome him and ask his name. “I live here. Israel. My family made aliyah years ago.”

There’s something about the way he speaks, listless almost, that makes Shraga’s heart twist. Instinctively, he leans forward, grips the bochur’s hand.

“Shraga Fein. Let me know if you need anything.”

Mordy gives a little nod, surprise flitting across the blank look. His eyes are light, a murky blue-green-gray. Meir, Shraga remembers, had brown eyes.

Why is he thinking of Meir now?

Mordy slouches off, against the tide of bochurim streaming to the yeshivah dining room. Shraga leans on a shtender and watches out of the corner of his eye as the new bochur turns up the stairs and disappears from view.

“Reb Shraga, I see you’ve met our new talmid.”

The boys at Yeshivah Moshe Emes claim that the rosh yeshivah has mastered the art of appearing out of thin air. Shraga thinks of that now as he jumps a little, knocks a pile off notes of the shtender, and hurriedly bends to retrieve them.

“If you have a minute, I have a couple of things to discuss with you,” Rabbi Klein says, crossing the room in rapid strides as he speaks. Shraga follows him, bemused.

“A great zeman, a great start, a groise shkoiyach, Reb Shraga.”

Too many compliments in one sentence. Shraga nods his thanks and waits for the other shoe to drop.

“So it’s gevaldig, the connection you have with the bochurim, we appreciate it, we really do,” Rabbi Klein continues, seating himself behind the mound of seforim and papers that hides his desk from view.  “All of us, the hanhalah, we see it, it’s something special. And you know how it is these days, the boys need a lot of guidance. Yeshivah gedolah, being away from home, these years right before embarking on shidduchim…. You know what I mean.”

“Weiss,” Shraga supplies. He thinks he can see where this is going. So this is why the new bochur with the strange apathy in his eyes has been placed in his shiur instead of Reb Naftali’s, where the bochurim usually begin. There’s some sort of problem, a difficult background story maybe, they want him to connect with the boy.

Rabbi Klein waves his hand. “Yes, yes, but it’s more than that, we’re talking about neshamos here, we have to get it right. And l’maiseh, many of the bochurim choose to confide in you.” As he speaks, he busies himself with some papers, rolling them up like a megillah and snapping a rubber band around the bundle. “There’s a course endorsed by rabbanim — a counseling course. It’s not a degree or anything like that, it’s just, you know how they call it, crisis counseling.”

He flourishes the papers towards Shraga. “I registered you. The yeshivah will be footing the bill, of course.”

Shraga’s mouth falls open. He knows this is a big compliment. And that he’s not being given a choice.