“You know,” he told them, “the new neighborhood in Florida is only for the real gvirim, they’re very picky.”
Thursday was a big day for the residents of Wimbledon Loop.
Heshy Brucker had his second meeting with Rabbi Glatter scheduled. This one had been initiated by the rosh yeshivah, which was an encouraging sign. Gitty could see that he was nervous, and she walked him out to the car and smiled reassuringly. This moved him, because he hadn’t seen much of that Gitty since they’d come to America. Things would be good.
Reuven Stagler was going to meet Rabbi Klarberg, in an attempt to try to sell the rav on the Alameda Gardens rabbanus in person. The Lauer brothers hadn’t agreed to give up one of the new houses for the cause, but they had promised to cover half the salary for the first three years, which — they were eager to point out — was more than the other developers were doing. They had built a shul, they kept saying, and that should have been enough. The implication was that a more capable askan would have made it work already, but they would have to deal with what they had.
Both men met outside their homes on their way to their respective meetings, and Reuven Stagler offered the overly enthusiastic good morning greeting of a person who is overcompensating for not really meaning it.
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