“You want to bring him back here to put away the ice cream? But he went to learn, Nechami!”
It’s early Shabbos afternoon, and all is tranquil and silent. The moshav is sleeping. Not a cow moos, not a bird chirps.
And on the kitchen counter sits a dripping carton of ice cream. Alongside it is a disposable white bowl, stained in pink. A teaspoon. A package of nut crunch, left open. A bottle of chocolate syrup, sticky. Together, they form an artistic composition with a clear message: Chanochi Bernfeld was here, treating himself to a midday snack.
“Chanochi!” Nechami calls out, breaking the tranquil silence. Bubbling lava is rising.
“He went out to learn,” says her mother-in-law, relaxing in the living room with the Hed Kevodah. “What’s the matter? Something urgent?”
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