She took a deep shuddering breath, fingering the curtain with a trembling hand. Her heart was beating like the new Eighth Day, only increasing in speed. Would anybody notice her distress?
All around, people were smiling. The lively strains of “Ve-Sein-Bonu”, complete with the slightly off-key harmony from the Kalmanowitz Twins, filled the room. Way down, in the men’s section, energetic bochurim were dancing around the shuffling men, waving Sifrei Torah like Lulavim. Children were frantically making rounds of the room, skipping the back corner to reach Mr Epstien, who always gave the best nosh. Proud fathers held their kids flags and their kids hands. The rav was holding a sefer in the corner, his saintly brow furrowed in concentration. Zeidy Morgenstern was sitting in his wheelchair, clapping enthusiastically out of beat and giving two sweets to the entrepreneurs savvy enough to say thank you. Bobby Smiles, the South American Baal Teshuva, was swinging his angelic son around on his shoulders, and he could actually touch the women’s gallery. Itche Meir was holding his trademark whiskey tumbler, swirling the golden liquid in a way you were only supposed to do to red wine.
To the naked eye, to the average onlooker, it was a regular Simchas Torah in Kehillas Ohel Moshe. But in the ladies gallery, one girl was staring down transfixed, unable to tear her terrified gaze from the tall man who had just entered the Shul. She didn’t hear Aunty Mirel kvell “That’s my Motti! Everyone look!” She didn’t hear Libby strut in on her twelve inch heels, announcing her latest conquest in KosherMart. She didn’t even notice as Rochelle whispered into her ear about Perelle, who was going out again with the illuy from Stamford.
Her eyes were drawn to the one man. Was it him? Could it be him? She hoped it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.
As though controlled by some sixth sense, the man stiffened, craning his neck to look at the ladies gallery.
There was a scream, and Ruchy fell to the floor in a dead faint.
Joseph had arrived.