They cover their heads and they wear tzitizis and they grow their beards and they bring out their instruments to play on Shabbos
Friday afternoon, and no one has come to pick up Ernst’s violin to take it to the concert hall. Hannah has been listening out for the knock at the front door, even as she puts the chicken soup on the blech and takes the chicken out of the oven and considers whether or not five more minutes in the oven will turn light gold to dark gold, just the way Ernst likes it, or whether it would grow too dark and crispy, and will be dry by the time they eat it.
Freshly groomed for Shabbos, Ernst stops in the kitchen for his weekly sample of babka.
“Are you not playing tonight?” she asks.
He shakes his head. “Thankfully not.”
“Thankfully? This is not like you.”
He dabs the crumbs from his mouth with a linen napkin. “After last week we have some time off.”
She nods. This past week was double concerts — afternoon and evening.
This one’s in print. Some of our best stories live in the magazine — subscribe to get Mishpacha every week.
