“What about your second Pesach Seder? I usually have American bochurim. Come to me”
MY friend Dovid explodes into the room with the force of an Israeli tender driver chasing a tenth fare, throwing himself on the sagging couch in the corner of our dirah and mopping his crimson face.
“Figured out your matzav?” Ezra Rubin asks, tossing clothing into a dusty suitcase.
“Not yet. My mother’s working on tickets. I told her about that great deal on United — the one Markowitz was klehring about after first seder, but…” an eloquent shrug. He looks at me. “What about you, Yitzchak?”
“I have an aunt and uncle in Bnei Brak. I really want to go home, but with the crazy Covid regulations, who knows if I’ll be back in time for the next zeman? I figure it’s better to stay here for Pesach if I can,” I say.
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