“You did a really big aveirah. You must do teshuvah to the Eibishter.” She doesn’t know how. She feels scared and small
She runs behind the shul, peeks into windows. First the men, loud and heartfelt. Skip along the path to the women, hushed, respectful. She examines the nosh in her pekeleh. Holds the bag over the noisy central air condenser and it dances. Rattles. Her friends laugh. Then they leave.
She enters the women’s section. From the men’s side, her father’s voice. She is proud. But no one is looking at the mechitzah; they look down. No smiles.
Next to her, the girl who is forever scolding the younger girls stands. Lifts a hand and knocks her chest. Again. Again. Again. She peers up at the girl’s face. So still, severe. She runs out of shul.
She twists her sticky fingers together. He’d told her, “Don’t eat at the neighbors, they use different hechsherim.” But it was ices that looked like those in their own freezer.
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