The floor of the Neve Menuchas HaZahav old age home shone brightly, as usual. A group of elderly ladies sat crocheting in their designated spot near the drooping palmettos. Brochah watched as pale, gnarled fingers pulled thread over the needles and downwards meticulously but painfully slowly. Sarah nudged her hard and thrust her chin out in the direction of Rav Meyer, a survivor of the horrors ofAuschwitz. His broad shoulders hunched forward over a large tome of Gemara, defying anyone to remove it.
Sarah’s quick rap on the white door of the private room was answered by a firm voice “Come in.”
Rebbetzin Weiss every strand of her chestnut sheitel glued obediently into place was sitting at a small table covered with covered with books of all sizes. Here and there the flowered tablecloth peeped tremulously through.
“Take a drink and we will begin” the Rebbetzin ordered and waited to answer amen to the loud brachos she expected to hear.
“Let’s begin with the first pasuk in the Torah” she said pushing a Chumash towards Brochah. “Will you read?”
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