Perri hadn’t been wrong; Shloimy was struggling in shiur. And his maggid shiur clearly didn’t have much compassion for him
Chaim stepped out of the beis medrash and took out his phone. Then he put it back into his pocket. There was a truck unloading drinks at the nearby makolet; it was probably too noisy to have a good conversation with Shloimy’s maggid shiur. Maybe in an hour or two, things would be quieter.
Then he remembered Perri’s narrowed eyes this morning when he’d left the house. “So you’ll call him today, right?” she had said.
“It’s on my list,” he promised.
He didn’t really have a list — they both knew that. But he also knew he couldn’t go back home without checking off this task. And bein hasedorim was his only window to do it. He sighed and walked up the block, away from the truck’s dull rumble and the workers’ barked instructions, and searched his contacts. Schlesinger, Rav. That was it.
“Kein, yes,” came the abrupt greeting.
“Shalom Rav Schlesinger, this is Chaim Weiss, the abba of Shloimy Weiss, from shiur beis.”
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