P
eople tried to be sensitive and nice, but he felt like a turtle without a shell, exposed and tender. Tatty was at home now, released on bail, and Yanky realized that the police had made an exception when they’d allowed him to visit his father. Suspects under arrest weren’t usually permitted to have visitors.
In the evening he dropped by his parents’ house, had some cake and tea, chatted with his mother and asked how Tatty was, mentioning not a word about investigations, arrests, or bail. It was almost as if nothing had happened.
At kollel the next day, the yungeleit all spoke admiringly of Reb Reuven Chaim, of his integrity. They were sure he was innocent of any wrongdoing. But something inside Yanky had cracked wide open, and he knew he’d never be the same again, not even if Tatty came out of this parshah squeaky-clean.
He couldn’t go on any longer just copying his father. It didn’t matter if Tatty was a tzaddik. Yanky had to find his authentic self — somewhere in there among the rubble.
