Finished

“Mr. Fleischmann.”

The butcher stood at the sink, ignoring a customer who was frantically vying for his attention.

“Mr. Fleischmann!”

“I’m washing my hands Mrs. Goldstein.”

“Is the chuck fresh?”

Rueven, the butcher, never took his focus off the task at hand. He meticulously worked the harsh
industrial bar of soap between his fingers and under his fingernails believing that the only true
gauge of cleanliness was the redness of his hands.

“Is the chuck fresh?” she persisted.

Rueven moved the soap up his forearms, lathering his arms up to the elbows.

“All of the meat is fresh Mrs. Goldstein. I do not sell spoiled meat,” he replied into the sink.

Rueven dried his hands on his badly stained apron and approached Mrs Goldstein standing
anxiously at the counter. Though heavy set, the woman was well turned out in a blue day dress
patterned with white flowers and a matching purse and gloves. Mrs. Goldstein had long let it be
known that she would welcome attention from the butcher but Rueven had so far successfully
avoided invitations to dinner, tea, holiday meals and home delivery of her weekly meat order. He
was nevertheless vaguely resigned to the fact that he would one day be forced to capitulate.

“I had an order go bad,” she countered.

“Mrs. Goldstein, with all due respect, that meat was six months old.”

“What difference does that make if it’s in the freezer?” asked Mrs. Goldstein, not for the first
time.

Rueven sighed. “Meat doesn’t last in the freezer any more. It’s the antibiotics. You have to eat
your chuck within three months or it’s no good.”

“Well I don’t want that kind of meat,” replied Mrs Goldstein, in her mind, quite reasonably. “I
want the meat like you use to have.”
“They don’t make meat like that any more. All the meat is raised by big conglomerates. They
care more about profits than meat. It’s a racket,” explained the butcher. “I run a quality store.
Everything is top quality but I can only sell what they send me.”

“Well what can we do about it?” she asked, truly perplexed.

“You can buy a farm and a cow and raise it any way you like,” replied Rueven losing patience.
“I’ll even come to butcher it for you at a very reasonable price.”

“You won’t do it for free?”

“Yes Mrs. Goldstein, for you I would do it for free. Now how much chuck would you like?”

Rueven’s store was not the busiest butcher store in the community. It was small and the selection
was smaller. Rueven put sawdust on the floor and rationalized that his store had an old fashioned
charm but in reality the fixtures were tired and the entire premises was badly in need of a refresh.
Except for erev Shabbos {Friday afternoon}, Rueven was usually the only person behind the
counter but even erev Shabbos was not so busy. The problem was that Moishe’s carried chicken,
lamb and beef, hot prepared food and a small selection of dry goods. People like one-stop
shopping but Rueven was as old fashioned as his store. In his opinion, a real butcher dealt only in
beef. He did not want to know from chickens or groceries.

Rueven, of course, would like more money but his material needs were modest. He had enough
to eat, a roof, a bed and his small store. His clientele though small were loyal and he managed to
maintain a personal relationship with each of them. He knew of their families, their children,
their health, their tsuris {troubles}, their nachos {joy} and their simchas, {celebrations} which
he not only supplied with meat but was also frequently invited to attend. His customers were his
family. Maintaining these relationships took time and Rueven found that he could only
successfully service a small number of customers.

Only infrequently did a stranger enter his shop. The beautiful young woman walking through the
door had brilliant red hair, ghostly pale skin and a riotous outbreak of freckles on her face. She
was dressed in the traditional garb of a married Hasidic woman with a kerchief over her head
instead of the more traditional sheytl {wig}. Rueven took a guilty look at her hair. It was not the
orangey red of the Ukrainian Jew. This woman was a shiksa {a non-Jewish woman}.

“Yes hello. What can I do for you, Mrs?” Rueven greeted his client.

“Hello.” The young woman smiled sweetly at the butcher. Rueven waited patiently for more. “I
was wondering if you could help me?” asked the woman shyly.

“Yes, certainly.”
“I haven’t been married very long and I want to throw a Shabbat dinner for my husband’s
parents.” Rueven cringed as her pronunciation of Shabbat. She used the Hebrew pronunciation
but insisted of softening the last syllable to rhyme with ‘but’, she flattened the ‘a’ to rhyme with
bat. She continued. ‘I want them to … maybe like … the dinner so I would like your advice on
what to serve.”

Rueven looked closely at the young woman. Her nervous hands were crushing her stylish
handbag. “They’re Jewish?” Rueven asked.

The young woman replied with a quizzical look on her face.

“Your in-laws? They’re Jewish?” explained Rueven.

“Oh. Yes. They’re Jewish,” stuttered the woman with an embarrassed laugh.

“May I ask their names?”

“Baruch and Goldie Blumenthal.” The woman was unable to produce the guttural sound of her
father-in-law’s first name causing another language induced cringe in the butcher.

“You’re Mendel’s wife.”

“That’s right,” confirmed the young woman sweetly. “Can you help me?”

“And the Blumenthal's are coming to your house for Shabbos dinner?”

“That’s right,” repeated the young woman.

Rueven was impressed. Many parents in the orthodox community would have written their son
off as dead but the Blumenthals had a soft heart. The community was abuzz with gossip about
the marriage of the Blumenthal boy to a young shiksa. And here she was, standing in Rueven’s
store. And she was lovely.

The young woman had converted but had used an outside Rabbi as the local Rebbe {Rabbi} had
refused her entry into the tight knit community. The wedding had been a private affair and no
one was quite sure whether the Blumenthal's had actually attended the ceremony. Either way, not
many in the community would have faulted them. As long as they did not flaunt the illicit
marriage, the Blumenthal's’ status in the community was secure. Going to Shabbos dinner at
their son’s house was risky. Having the shiksa speak about in public was out and out reckless.

“Can you help me?” the woman asked again.

“Yes of course,” replied Rueven coming back to the issue at hand. “You shouldn’t serve meat
all.”
“Chicken then?” asked the woman.

“Chicken is more traditional for Shabbos,” agreed the butcher using the Yiddish pronunciation of
the Sabbath. “But I think that maybe fish would be a wiser choice. Orthodox people do not like
to eat meat outside of their own homes.”

“But I keep a kosher house,” protested the young bride. “I only buy food with a kosher symbol. I
have two sets of dishes. I’m buying my meat from you. What more can I do?”

“Meat is very tricky. And I should know,” the butcher said with a chuckle waiving at his wares.
“Trust me; serve them fish with some potatoes and a vegetable. But no dairy. Strictly parve
{neither meat nor dairy}.”

“Do you sell fish?” asked the Bride meekly.

“No. Only meat. Buy the fish from Mendel’s. Just 6 doors down,” instructed Rueven. “And tell
your in-laws that you bought the fish from Mendel the Monger. They’ll gobble it up for sure.”

“Isn’t that rude?” asked the young bride.

“No, not at all. It’s an inside joke. Baruch will think it’s funny. And it will make him more
comfortable. Trust me.”

“Thank you so much”, said the relieved young woman as she prepared to leave the butcher store.

“Mr. Fleischmann”, said the butcher by way of introduction.

“Thank you Mr. Fleischmann,” said the young woman with a smile. “I’m Sally.”

“I will call you Mrs. Blumenthal,” the butcher informed his client. “Git Shabbos {good
Sabbath}, Mrs. Blumenthal,”

“Good Shabbat, Mr. Fleischmann,” replied the woman. Rueven decided he would eventually
need to correct her pronunciation.

Monday was the slowest day of the week. With the store closed on Shabbos, his clients had only
Sunday to do their shopping before returning to the secular world. On Monday, most families
were either fully stocked with meat or still eating Shabbos leftovers. Things wouldn’t pick up
until Thursday when the housewives got an early jump on next Shabbos’ shopping.

Rueven enjoyed his quiet days. Mondays were devoted to cleaning. He took pride in giving his
entire shop a thorough scrub down. Mondays were a quasi-religious experience for Rueven who
had came to associate the cleansing of his store with the cleansing of his soul. Rueven felt that
his mission to provide good, wholesome food to nourish the Jewish body to be of equal
importance to the Rabbis’ job of nourishing the Jewish soul. And cleanliness was an essential
part of his mission.

On Tuesdays, Rueven fed his own soul by the studying the Talmud between his infrequent
customers. Through the Talmud, Rueven felt himself personally connected to his people’s 6000
year relationship to G-d’s laws. He felt a particular affinity to the multitude of passages
concerning food and kashrut {kosher} regulations though he often had difficulty following the
Byzantine logic.

On Wednesdays, Rueven spent time studying the Talmud with his friend Rabbi Schlomo. The
Rabbi was one of three mashgiach {kosher inspector} serving the local Orthodox community.
Though he had a good heart, Schlomo had been a serious underachiever at the Yeshivah
{Rabbinical school}. As a result, Schlomo was relegated to inspecting only the smallest of food
businesses. Accepting that he was third string, Rabbi Schlomo inspections tended to lack the
rigour of his more esteemed colleagues. This suited Rueven who took pride in his adherence to
kashrut rules and did not need nor welcome outside verification.

The clergy was never a lucrative profession and Schlomo seem to make the least of his rabbinical
opportunities, reducing himself to one of the poorest members of his community. Rueven would
have been more than happy to provide free meat to his Rabbi but Schlomo rightly pointed out the
perceived conflict of interest that such an arrangement would entail. Instead Rueven instituted a
pay-what-you-can policy for Rabbi Schlomo in exchange for weekly Talmud lessons. Most
weeks Rabbi Schlomo ended up paying less than a quarter of the retail value of the meat while
providing little insight to the Talmud.

“I was reading about Lot’s wife this week,” Rueven began.

“Ah, the story of a disobedient woman. A very important lesson even in today’s modern world,”
replied Rabbi Schlomo, wisely stroking his long, unkempt beard. Schlomo’s personal hygiene
was not up to Rueven’s exacting standards. Thankfully the Rabbi tended to keep his distance in
their weekly interactions.

“Why did G-d turn her into a pillar of salt?” asked Rueven.

“The answer is quite simple. She disobeyed G-d’s instructions not to look back at the destruction
of Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“But doesn’t the punishment seems far out of proportion to the crime?” asked Rueven. “Eve
disobeyed G-d and was cast out of the Garden of Eden but was allowed to live. Her son, Caine,
killed his brother and was allowed to live. So why was Lot’s wife dealt with so much more
harshly?”
“Ah,” exclaimed the Rabbi. “Lot’s wife did not only disobey G-d’s instructions. By looking back
at Sodom, she showed regret and a longing for her lost home. Since she showed that she was part
of Sodom, she should suffer the same fate as the other residents of that wicked city.”

“But the citizens of Sodom were destroyed by fire and brimstone. Why did Lot’s wife suffer a
different fate? Why was she turned into a pillar of salt?”

“Well,” Rabbi Schlomo replied more slowly, stoking his beard again. “A pillar can be seen by all
who pass, so perhaps G-d intend her to be a monument; a warning to future generations.”

“A monument made out of salt? Surely if G -d wanted to create a monument, he would have
turned Lot’s wife into stone.”

“Maybe G-d was warning us about salt. You know that too much is no good for you,” suggested
the Rabbi.

“No one knew that too much salt was bad in the bible. Quite the opposite. Salt was considered
essential to one’s health, used to preserve food and add flavour. Also used to kosher meat, of
course,” said Rueven. “Are you suggesting that G-d issued a warning that wouldn’t be
understood for over 5,000 years?”

“G-d does not wear a wrist watch,” stated Rabbi Schlomo wisely.

“A calendar,” corrected Rueven.

Rabbi Schlomo stared blankly at his friend.

“A calendar,” repeated Rueven. “5,000 years is measured by a calendar, not a watch.”

“But nobody wears a calendar,” protested Rabbi Schlomo.

“Quite right,” agreed the butcher.

Monday was the low point of the store’s inventory making it the perfect day for a full scrub
down. While the store was still closed, Rueven tackled the walk-in refrigerator and the back of
the store, moving all of the product to the two refrigerated display cases at the front of the store.
In his daily clean-up, Rueven used a mixture of soap and vinegar but for his weekly scrub down
Rueven wiped down every surface twice, first with a diluted solution of bleach and then again
with plain warm water. With the back of the house cleaned, Rueven opened the front door and
began cleaning the front of the store. Customer traffic was always light and Rueven hoped that
the few customers who did interrupt his cleaning routine would be more impressed by his
vigorous scrubbing than inconvenienced by the scrub down.
The two refrigerated display cases were affixed to either side of a worn linoleum counter holding
the cash register. Rueven emptied one of the cases into its companion and got down on his knees
to begin his scrubbing when bell above the door announced the arrival of a customer. Rueven did
not get too many unexpected customers. Most his clients were regulars and followed predictable
shopping habits. Usually only good or bad news would drive a customer to shop outside of their
normal day and hour.

Rueven rose to see Goldie Blumenthal walking into his store, dressed in the height of Chasidic
fashion with a long dark skirt ending at her ankles, a high collared long sleeved white blouse
white socks and tennis shoes.

“Good morning Mrs. Blumenthal. Please let me just wash my hands.”

“Please take your time Mr. Fleischmann.”

At the sink Rueven remembered that the Blumenthals went to their son’s house for Shabbos and
would not have any leftovers for the week. “How are you?” the butcher asked as he turned to
face his customer.

“Barurch Hashem {blessed be G-d},” came the traditional reply.

Not daring to be more specific, Rueven asked, “I didn’t see you erev Shabbos. How was your
Shabbos?”

“Very nice. Thank you.”

“What can it get you?”

“You don’t seem to have much in stock,” said Mrs. Blumenthal scanning the selection in the
single display case.

“Mondays,” replied the butcher with a shrug.

“What do you recommend?” asked Mrs. Blumenthal peeking into the refrigerated case.

“I have some beautiful New York Strips,” said Rueven pinching his thumb, index and middle
fingers together and pointing them to the sky as if to demonstrate the inadequacy of words to
describe the wonder of the steaks. “Tender. Perfectly marbled. Grill them ... but lightly. Too long
and they’ll be ruined.”

“Fresh?” asked Mrs. Blumenthal.

“You don’t want them too fresh,” advised the butcher. “New York strips need to be aged a little.”
“Alright,” agreed Mrs. Blumenthal showing little enthusiasm.

“How many would you like?”

“Just the two.”

Rueven, in fact, only had two steaks left. He quickly removed the steaks from the display case
and wrapped them in brown butcher paper. “How’s the family?” he asked as he rang up the sale.

“Barurch Hashem,” repeated Mrs. Blumenthal putting an end to Rueven’s prying.

The next morning the bell over the door interrupted Rueven's Talmudic studies. The butcher
looked up to see younger Mrs. Blumenthal entering the shop.

“Hello Mr. Fleischmann,” said the young woman with a large smile.

“Mrs. Blumenthal, how wonderful to see you.” Rueven put a strip of butcher paper across the
page before closing the book.

Like a small child too excited to wait for the conversation to run its proper course, she blurted
out, “The Shabbot dinner was a great success!”

“Wonderful. Did they eat?” asked Rueven.

“They all but lick their plates.” The younger Mrs Blumenthal laughed. “I even mentioned
Mendel the Monger. It’s the first time I’ve seen my in-laws laugh.”

“I told you.” Rueven laughed. “But it’s not in-laws. We say Machatunim. Machatunim for in-
laws.”

“Mach-a-toon-um,” The younger Blumenthal repeated slowly. “Machtoonum. Thank you so

much Mr. Fleischmann. Things have really improved with my Machatoonum. I can’t tell you
how grateful I am for your kindness.”

“It’s me who should be thanking you,” replied Rueven. “You have allowed me to perform a
mitzvah. A good deed.”

“You’re welcome,” she answered with a giggle. “But I can really use some more help if you’d
like to perform some more mitzvahs. I took all the lessons to convert to Judaism but nobody ever
teaches you how to fit in. If you could give me some more tips and points, what to say to
people?” The young woman paused to gauge the butcher’s reaction. “I don’t know who else to
turn to. You’re my only friend.”
His face felt flush. His embarrassment at the display of emotion flustered him all the more. “No.
I’m sorry.” He stammered.

“Oh,” was all the young woman could say through her disappointment.

“It wouldn’t be appropriate,” he explained. “I’m sorry.”

“I see,” she said. “Perhaps we can chat a little when I pick up my order?”

“Perhaps,” Rueven agreed reluctantly.

“Well,” she replied softly. “Can I please have two pounds of flank steak?”

The butcher quietly wrapped and rang up his customer’s order.

“Thank you,” she said, taking her order. “And thank you for being a friend.”

At your final declaration of friendship, Rueven felt a jolt as if struck by an electric bolt. He broke
into a cold sweat watching the woman walk out of his shop.

Rueven was unable to return to his studies. He was still distraught when Rabbi Schlomo arrived
the next day for Rueven’s weekly Talmud lesson.

“Hello my friend,” the Rabbi called out over the jaunty jingle of the front bell when he came into
the shop the next day.

“Hello Rebbe,” replied the butcher with little enthusiasm.

Schlomo noted that Rueven’s book of Talmudic commentaries was nowhere in sight. “What
have you been studying?”

“Something happened yesterday,” Rueven immediately confessed.

“Tell me about it, my friend,” said the Rabbi pulling up the plain wooden chair that was his
normal seat.

“Do you know Baruch and Goldie’s boy, Mendel?” asked Rueven.

“The one that married the shiksa?” Schlomo asked despite the fact that there was only one young
man in the community that fit the description.

“Actually she converted,” replied Rueven. “She came in the shop looking for some advice to
serve her Machatunim for dinner.”

“Baruch at the shikas’s house? I’m surprised,” said Schlomo.

“She converted,” repeated Rueven. “So I helped her a bit with the menu and now she feels …
familiar.”

“I see,” said the Rabbi, stoking his beard wisely. “The mixing of the sexes is a very serious
thing.”

“I know. But what can I do? The woman was lonely. She told me I was her only friend.”

“A very serious matter,” pronounced the Rabbi. “An isolated woman in the community is a
dangerous thing.”

“Yes that’s the problem,” agreed Rueven. “The community rejected her but she didn’t go away.
She is determined to make her life here with Mendel. The only thing that we’ve accomplished is
to make the poor woman suffer.”

“If she won’t go away then we have to bring her into the community,” decided Rabbi Schlomo.

“That’s exactly what she wants,” confirmed Rueven. “She asked for my help. She would like me
to give her advice on how to fit in better.”

“That would be completely inappropriate,” advised Schlomo.

“That’s what I told her.”

Rabbi Schlomo nodded in approval of the butcher’s wise decision.

They sat for a moment trying to decide what to do about the problem. “What if I met with both
her and Mendel together?” asked Rueven.

“No, no, no, no.” The Rabbi wagged his finger in rebuke of the butcher’s suggestion. “It is not
your place to give advice to another man’s wife, even in the husband’s presence.”

The two men returned to silence as they put their minds to uncovering a solution to Rueven’s
problem.

“Buuuttt,” began Schlomo in a sing song voice. “If you meet Mendel and his wife with a woman
at your side, couple to couple, that would be allowed.”

“Yes. I see,” said Rueven.

“But you’re not married,” said Schlomo, stating the obvious.

“Yes, But I know a woman who can help.”

Rueven spoke to Mrs. Goldstein the next time she came into the store for her weekly order.
“Ah, here comes my favourite customer,” Rueven announced as Mrs. Goldstein entered the shop.

“Thank you very much Mr. Fleischmann,” she replied with a laugh. “But you don’t want to upset
your other customers,” waiving her arms about the empty store.

“Ach, what do I care about them … ,” Rueven said with a dismissive waive of his hand. “…
when I have you.”

Mrs. Goldstein laughed at the outrageous flirt. “What has come over you?”

“I wanted to ask you. Would you have tea with me sometime?”

“Well how nice. I would love to spend some time with you. But not over tea.”

“No?” questioned Rueven.

“It wouldn’t be proper. We are not teenagers mooning over each other at a coffee shop,” declared
Mrs. Goldstein. “If we are to meet we will do it like adults, over a meal. Come for lunch after
Shul {synagogue} on Shabbos.”

“I couldn’t put you through the trouble,” protested Rueven raising his hand.

“It’s no trouble,” she assured him. “I have to eat anyway. And its easier to cook for two than
one.”

“Alright but let me contribute the meat. Please take this nice roast.”

The paused for a moment looked at the beautifully marbled rib roast. “I usually serve chicken on
Shabbos,” she protested.

“I don’t carry chicken,” replied Rueven.

“Yes, I know.”

“You have to let me contribute something,” Rueven pointed out.

“Alright,” agreed Mrs. Goldstein. “The roast will be lovely. Thank you. So I will see you after
Shul.”

Rueven came directly from Shul still carrying his tallis {prayer shawl}and dressed in his
Shabbos best. Mrs. Goldstein lived quite near the Shul in a large, beautifully maintained home,
much larger than her needs. Its proximity to the Shul made it a highly desirable property but her
late husband had left her in comfortable circumstances. She had no economic reason to
downsize.
The roast was prepared before Shabbos and slow cooked in the oven overnight in adherence to
the prohibition against cooking on the Sabbath. Mrs. Goldstein was an excellent cook. Rueven,
use to eating his own cooking, devoured the meal with admirable dedication while his hostess
gave an endless monologue on the comings and goings of her neighbours.

Over tea and dessert, Rueven got around to the purpose of his visit.

“Thank you so much for lunch. It was delicious,” Rueven began.

“It was my pleasure,” she replied.

“You have always struck me as a woman with a good neshomeh {soul}.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Goldstein, somewhat suspicious of the non-sequitur compliment.

“I am wondering if you could help me with a mitzvah? “Do you know Baruch and Goldie’s boy,
Mendel?” asked Rueven.

“The one that married the shiksa?” asked Mrs. Goldstein.

“She’s converted. Anyway, she’s isolated in the community and asked for some help on how to
fit better.”

Mrs. Goldstein glared at her luncheon companion. “I see,” she said coldly.

“Perhaps you could join me for tea … or lunch … with Mendel and his wife and maybe give
them some advice,” said Rueven.

“I see how it is. You pretend to show an interest, start a friendship, when in fact you just want to
use me so you can leer over some young shikas, like a dirty old man.”

“That’s not so,” protested Rueven. “I think you are a very fine women. I would be honoured to
have you as a friend.”

“You would not trifle with me?” asked Mrs. Goldstein more as a threat than a question.

“My intensions are honourable,” he assured her.

“Then we have an understanding?” she asked.

“Yes,” Rueven agreed.

“Then I’ll help you,” Mrs. Goldstein.

“Thank you,” said Rueven

“Don’t thank me. I haven’t helped you yet,” replied Mrs. Goldstein.

Mrs. Goldstein set up the date, at the young couple’s home. Rueven had only one fine Shabbos
suit but Mrs. Goldstein was decked out at in a fine example of Hasidic chic with an elegant dress,
white gloves, pearls and a delicate silk shawl.

Any awkwardness was immediately banished by Mrs. Goldstein’s endless stream of community
gossip. Though the food was not nearly as good as his previous Shabbos lunch, Rueven kept
himself busy eating lunch while Mrs. Goldstein spoke. The young hostess however was thrilled
to be let in on all the community secrets for the first time. She expressed joy at the good news,
sorrow at the bad, laughed at the humorous stories and expressed sorrow at the sad. When she
could wait no longer, she brought up the purpose of the visit.

“Thank you for agreeing to help me,” the young bride said.

Her thanks were directed primarily at Mrs. Goldstein but it was Rueven who replied. “It is
entirely out pleasure. There are some subtleties in Hasidic culture that only one born into the
community can know.”

“That’s a very pretty kerchief Mrs. Blumenthal. It sets off your hair beautifully,” interrupted
Mrs. Goldstein.

“Thank you,” the young woman replied with a smile.

“Get rid of it,” Mrs. Goldstein ordered. “It is completely inappropriate. Only your husband
should be able to see your hair. You are not to show even a single lock in public. Go down to
Regina’s for a sheytl, a wig. Tell her I sent you”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Blumenthal replied meekly.

“Don’t thank me. I haven’t finished helping you yet. If you want to be accepted, there are rules
you have to follow. The most important is that there is no mixing of the sexes. You are not to
speak to a man. You are not to look at a man. If you go into the butcher shop, order your meat
and go. Do not make idle talk and do not look the butcher in the eye. Do not look any man in the
eye.”

“Yes ma’am,” Mrs. Blumenthal said.

“In fact don’t go back into Mr. Fleischmann’s store. You have become all together too familiar.
Go to Moishe’s. He has a better selection anyway,’ said Mrs. Goldstein.

“Wait a minute,” Rueven interjected.

“I’m not finished yet,” Mrs. Goldstein warned Rueven.

“Alright,” Mrs. Blumenthal agreed.

“I want you to sit next to me at Shul next Shabbos. I’ll save a seat for you. Nobody will dare say
a word as long as you are under my protection.”

“Thank you so much,” said the young bride with tears in her eyes.

“And start a family right away,” Mrs. Goldstein ordered. “No one will completely trust you until
you have a child.”

Rueven bit his tongue until after the young couple left. “I thought you agreed that we would help
Mrs. Blumenthal.”

“Rose,”

Rueven looked confused. “Call me Rose. My name is Rose,” she explained.

“I … uh.” Rueven stuttered.

“We have a special arrangement,” Mrs. Goldstein said.

“Yes, of course Rose. We were going to give her some tips to fit in,” he said.

“I agreed to help you,” Mrs. Goldstein corrected. “And I did. I helped you out of a difficult
problem. What are you doing mixing with your customers? You should know better.”

Rueven broke into another embarrassing flush. “Oh … yes... thank you,” he said meekly.

“Don’t thank me. I haven’t finished helping you yet,” Mrs. Goldstein said. “The problem is that
you’re single. A single middle-aged man is just as dangerous as an isolated young woman.”

“I don’t think …”

“I’m not finished yet,” Mrs. Goldstein warned Rueven again. “No woman will go into a store if
they think the proprietor is mixing sexes.”

Mrs. Goldstein waited but Rueven wisely remained silent.

“But what woman would have you?” she continued giving Rueven a critical look. “You’re not a
great catch. You're still a good looking man, clean, but you let your business run down. And
when a man lets his business down, he lets himself down and he lets his family down. You need
to spruce up the shop. And bring in chicken. The community eats chicken. How can you expect
to sell anything on erev Shabbos if you don’t sell chicken?”

“But there’s no room,” Rueven complained.

“We’ll pull out the checkout counter and put in another display case.”

“Where will we put the cash register?” he asked.

“Behind the counter somewhere. Nobody ever came into a store to look at the cash register,”
Mrs. Goldstein explained.

“I don’t have the money,” Rueven complained.

“I’ll pay it. I’ll be a partner in the business,” Mrs. Goldstein declared.

“But I don’t know from chicken,” Rueven throwing out his final complaint.

“What’s to know?” she asked. “You buy it; you put it in the display counter; you sell it. I’ll tell
you what, work the chicken counter. That way I can keep my eyes on my investment,” she said
with a wink.

“Thank you,” said Rueven

“Oh, don’t thank me. I haven’t finished helping you yet.”