Afraid of Gehinnom, eh? What kind of life is that, constrained only by fear of punishment, instead of stirred by love?
It was five past eight. The older children had taken Bentzi to cheder, Raizele had gone to work, and the house was quiet. Raizele’s orange-meringue cake lay on the table, neatly cut and packed, ready for Yanky to deliver to Slovetitzky, so they could serve it at their bar mitzvah that evening.
But first, much more urgently, he had a hard task to cross off his list.
He had to call Rav Kitovitz, the rosh yeshivah.
He wanted this conversation to be over. He wanted to be free.
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