That’s what I liked about Yidel. He wasn’t playing pretend. He didn’t butter up to me. He didn’t look at me like I was some figure on an ivory tower
My fingers tingled from the weirdness, but I forced myself to focus on what I was saying. I took a moment to talk about the Europe nesiyah we were planning — a major siyum celebration — because I knew the Rav would appreciate my stoking the momentum and padding the pride we all took in our beloved beis medrash, and then I finished with a heartfelt brachah for our Rav, tipped my head modestly, and headed back to my seat.
“A sheinem shtickel,” Yidel Weinfeld assessed when I reclaimed my spot next to him. He held up the megillah holder, analyzing it from every angle, like it was an esrog or something.
That’s what I liked about Yidel. He wasn’t playing pretend. He didn’t butter up to me. He didn’t look at me like I was some figure on an ivory tower.
Because I wasn’t. I was the same old friend I’d always been. We’d played galachim in front of the shul building as eight-year-olds, we’d been chavrusas every Shabbos afternoon since we were twelve. The title gvir changed nothing for us, and I loved that there was this one person in my life who still behaved completely natural around me, who didn’t allow a gap the size of my bloated bank accounts to stand between us.
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