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NOV. 12, ‘25 // in Every Page... More CO ECTIONS SERIAL STORY פרשה קאנעקשענס CHAYA SILBER Kalman the Clown YIDDISH STORY RABBI GINSBERG N;M?7 H<DEPU KE< KN>L<>N>SETAR †Š‡‡”– †–ƒƒ ˜ƒ~ ‡•–’ ‘‡ƒ~ ‹‚ —‡— ‹‡‡ –’ ‡~ –~Œ†~Œ • ‚–‚ †~‚ Š~ŒŽ‡‡~ „~ ‚—Œ €‡ ~Š’ ~ Š~†‡’— ‡~ ‹‡‡ ‡ ƒ’ Ž‡‡~ ‰ƒ„~ €Ž~€€  ‡„ †€Ž––~’ ƒ~ † Ž †”„€•ƒƒ~ ˆ‡„ †~‚ ‡– – ‡ ƒ’ Ž‡‡~ Ž„ †‡ŒŽ‡~ ƒƒ ‚Šƒ  †‡Œ †‡‡” •‡†— ~ †—‡Ž „‡~ – ƒ~ €‡Š– ’ €Ž~€€‡ƒ–~ ‹‡—Œ—Œ ƒŒ— ‹‡‡ †‡‡” ”Ž~€ ~ Ž„ƒƒŽ~ ƒƒ€  ‡–  †‡Œ ‹Ž‡‡~Ž‡~ –~• ‡~ €‡Ž”‡„ ‹‡‡‚~ €ƒƒ  ’‡ƒ~ †~‚ Œ ~ƒƒ ƒŒ— – †€Ž–€’‡ƒ~ –~ƒƒ€ „‡~ ~ †~‚ ~ƒƒ —Œ—Œ – ƒ~ ‚Šƒ  †‡Œ †–€ †~‚ Œ ~ƒƒ Š~ †€–’€–‡~ †~‚ †Š’–~’ †‡ ƒ †€–’€ ‡– – ‹‡~ †~‚ ‡‡– †–€ "Œ~„ƒ” „Žƒ~ †‡Œ ƒƒ€ †—‡Ž †‡ŒŽ‡~ ‡ƒ–~ „‡~ – „~ †€~„€ —Œ—Œ – ‹‡~ †~‚ €Ž~€€Ž‡‡–~ „‡~ – ‹‡~ †’ƒ– –Ž‡‡~ ‡ƒƒ –‡†— ‡ ‡‡„ †–€‡ƒ~ ˆ‡„ †~‚ –Ž‡ ƒ~ ‡~ ‹Ž‡ ƒ” ‰ƒ„~ †Œƒ• ‡– –~Œ~†~ – „~ “–~‚ †–†‡–~’ ˜‡ ‹Žƒ’ ‡ ~ „‡~ – –~ Š~†‡’— ‡~ ‹‡‡ Ž‡‡„ • ‡– ‡‡„ „~ ƒ† ˆŽ – Š~„ ~ƒƒ Š ”„ –ƒ€ ƒ’ Š~–—‡ ‹‡Š—ƒ–‡ ‡~ †Ž‡ƒ~ƒƒ – Š~‡ƒƒ ‰ƒ„~ Œƒ• †—‡Ž ‹‡~ Š‡ƒ’~ ‘‰‡˜ – †~‚ †–‚€ ~ †~‚ ‡– – ƒƒ ƒ~ ~†‡ƒ~ ‹~ ‡‡–ƒ”‡ƒ~ ‡ƒ— –ƒƒ‡‡– ‹ – —†~‰ ‡~ ‹Ž‡ ‰ƒ„~ Š~†‡’— ‹ƒ” –~’•‡–ƒ” —†~‰ ƒ~ ‹‡~ †‡Œ ˜ƒ‰‡‡— ‡‡• †~‚€ †—‡Ž †~‚ ‡– ‹‡–ƒ‡— Ž‡‡„ €‡Ž ƒ” †Š‡‡~€ –‡‡„ ˆ‡„ †~‚ ‡– – †Œƒ• ‡– ‡‡„ „~ †€~†‡‡ƒƒ Ž‡• —‡‡~ ~ ‡ƒƒ €‡Ž–‚ –~ ƒ~ †—‡Ž–~€ ‘‡ƒ~ †•ƒ•€ †—‡Ž – †~‚ ‰ƒ„~ †—‡Ž ‹‡~ ‚ƒ”Œ ‹ ‡‡„ ‹‡‡•Œ ’~Š€ ■ — ‡~ Œƒ•€Ž~ – ƒ’ ƒ†— ‡~ Œ— – ƒ’ –†~’ ~ ƒƒ€ †Š~Œ  †~‚ †‡ŒŽ‡~ ‡Ž „‡~ •ŠŒ— ~ – ƒ~ƒƒ –†~’ †€‡Š ƒ~ †ƒ€ †—‡Ž ’~–† – †~‚ ‡‡€’‡ƒ–~ –‡Œ~Š †~’ – —†~‰ ‹ †Š~‚ƒ”’~ ‡ƒ~ †—‡Ž †Š’ „~Š€ †—‡Ž †~‚ –~‡ –†’— ~ƒƒ€ ‡ –‡ƒ~ ~ ‰ƒ„~ Œƒ•€ „€ ‹‡~ †~‚ – †—–‡‡~ – ”  †‡Œ –‰‡„ „‡~ = KAP KP<HN> € ‡‡ƒƒ” ‡ —‡ƒƒ” ‡„ ƒ—†‡‡„ ƒ’ ƒƒ€ ‚Šƒ –•Œ †~‚ ‡‡Š~ –†—–‡‡~ – ‡ƒ„~‡ƒƒ ‚–ƒ˜ – „Žƒ~ †Š‡‡”– ~–‡ƒ ˜—–’ ‡ƒ‚Ž~ Š~„ —†ŽŒ ‡‰ –†Š~‚ –‡~ ƒ’ ƒ„ ‡ ŒƒŽ€‡ƒ–~ –†—–‡‡~ – †~‚ ˆ‡ƒ~ ‡ƒ„~ ƒŽ‡~ ‹‚–~ ‚Š‡Œ ‡ ‡Šƒ” ˆ~ƒƒ— „‡~ – ~ƒƒ †‡‡”–Ž‡~ ‡‡„ ‡–†Œ †—‡Ž †Š”€  ‹‚–~ ‡‡€–‡–~ †—‡Ž ~‚ ‡‡„ ‡ƒ„~‡ƒƒ ‹‡•‡” ƒ’ ˜ƒ€‚Ž‚ ƒ~ ˜ƒƒ †Ž~–†Ž‡~ ‰‡Š† „ ‚ –„ –‡Œ Šƒƒ ‹ ƒ‰Š –‡‡„ ‘‡ƒ~ †•ƒ•€ †—‡Ž ~‚ ƒ‡Š ‡—ƒ• –ƒ‡‚ †–€ ‡ †‡Œ ‚ƒ”Œ €‡Š~ƒƒ€ ‹ ƒƒ€ ‹‡‡•Œ „‡~ ~ƒƒ ‚ƒ”Œ €‡Š~ƒƒ€ ~ ~‚ ‡– ƒ~ ‡~ •Ž~–• ‰ƒ„~ ƒ” ƒƒ€ ‡–†Œ Š~ŒŠ~ ˆ‡„ –~Ž ƒ‰ †Ž~–†Ž‡~ ‡ƒƒ€ „ –‡Œ Šƒƒ ˆ‡ƒ~ ‡ƒ„~ ~‚ ‹ŠƒŠ ƒŠ ˜Œ‡‡• –•ƒ ‚„‚ ‹Šƒ ‚‡˜ƒ–‡’ Š‰ƒ~ ‚ ˜ƒ –‡‡„ ‘‡ƒ~ €€’‡ƒ~ †—‡Ž ~‚ ƒ~ † ‡~ €‡Š€ Ž„ ~ƒƒ ‡~ ‰‡Š– ƒ’ ‰‡–†— Ž†—Œƒ~ ‰~ƒƒ— ‡~ ƒŠ‡’~ @UTP TN? AR TUASJ VA?=AN KA< IETAPEM NLEEU CSAY Rapid Ripening Whose Monday Will It Be? Rapid Ripening Hello Csay Readers! As the calendar moves along, the niflaos haborah of constantly refreshing scenes and temperatures is obvious. Along with the changing of the weather and daylight, there are di erent fruits that are in season now. Peaches, nectarines, and plums of summer make room for the kiwis, pomegranates, and still mangos. With these tropical fruits, the question arises: Is it ripe yet? And so, how do we know how long to expect the ripening process to take for kiwis and mangos? What about avocados? And is there any real way to speed it up, or is putting them in a brown bag in a dark cabinet really helpful, or is it just a way to forget that it exists? Let us know what your ripening ideas are, and whether you know how to predict how long the process will take! And If you have any tips on window-washing, we’re still open to ideas. Looking forward to hearing from you, PUBLIC AWARENESS/ PRISM EYE DOCTOR I highly recommend Dr. Nayer in Valhalla. He has helped my child plus lots of my friend’s children. He is very easy to talk to and cares very much for his patients. PUBLIC AWARENESS/ PRISM EYE DOCTOR I used Dr. Barakov at Ahava Vision on Main Street, and he was very good in diagnosing the problem with my daughter’s eye. My daughter did vision therapy and Baruch Hashem now she’s really doing well. SHATNEZ I would like to spread awareness that the bachurim’s (or any other) wool coats should also be checked for shatnez. the tea At the a than written a cute a smal The n all by during I actua much accom minute that is Let’s n the po the ba somet snack somet excitin Chode poem; For th nothin every comin ESROG I put it into a one-pound vl Šp  Žvk ‚vl y vl ‚w Žˆy ĞģČÿ Ĕ ĒĕČ ĤĞĜĞĕ ĒČÿ ěėČÿ Ě ĤĞėĕĒ ĔĘČĀ đđĞĎ ĤĞčČĀ ĔČĀ Đ đđČĀ ĚĕĞĥ .ĞģĔĝČÿ Ő .ĕč .ĕĥĒď .ĕĞģ Čÿ ĔĥĕĜ ěđČ ,ĤĕĢĕĠČĀ ĤĞĜČÿ ģĕĤĞĚČÿ ěČÿ ěĞđđĞĎ ěĞĜĞĒ Ğďĕĕč .ĔėČÿ ĤĔĤČÿ Ġ ,ĔĤĕĢČÿ Őĥ ěčČĀ Đ ĕĕđđĢ ĕď ĎĜđĤČÿ ĠĤĞ ěđČ ĎĜđĤĕĜĞĤĔ ĎđĜĞĎ ĔĕĚ ,ěĤĕĢĕĠČĀ ĞģĕĎĜČÿ ĤėĕđĐ ĞĎĜđĕ ěĞĚ ĒČÿ ěĝĕđđ đĢ ,ĞģĔĝČÿ Ő Čÿ ěĕĕĒ ěĞģ ĤĞĔĕĕđđĢ ĤĞď ĒČÿ ěĤĞĔĕĢ đĢ ěđČ ,ĔĤĞĔĕĢ ěĞĚ đĘĕĠČ ĝĞĚĞĔ ĞĔĜČÿ ĘŐĞĎ ĕď ěĝĞđĚĥĝĕđČ ğĤČÿ ď ĝĜĔĕĕĢČÿ č ĤĞģđģėČĀ Ĝ .ĕč .ĕĥĒď .ĕĞģ ěŐČÿ ė đĢ ĖĕĘĎĞĚ ĝĞĘČÿ ěđĔ đĢ .ęđĤČÿ ġĞĎĤĞ ČĀ ď ěĞĜĞĒ ĕĕĒ čĕđČ À ěČĀ ĠĞĘĞĔ ĞĔĝĔĜČĀ Ĝ ĕď ĕđđ ĔģĤĞĚČÿ č ěĞĚČÿ ĒđĢ ěčČĀ Đ Ğďĕĕč .ěėĕĕĢ ĞĔđĎ Čÿ .ĎĕďĕĕĘ ĒĕČ ĝČÿ Ď ĞčĘĞĒ ĕď ğĕđČ Ğģďđč ğĘČÿ Ĥ ĤČÿ Ġ ĔĎČĀ ĒĞĎ ěđČ ,ĔĤČĀ đđ ĝČĀ ď ěĞĚđĜĞĎ đđČĀ ĚĕĞĥ ĔČĀ Đ ěČÿ ď :ěĕĕĤČÿ ęĕĜŐ ěĕČ ĔĤČĀ ĠČĀ Ē ğĘČÿ Ĥ ĔČĀ Đ ",.ĕč .ĕĥĒď .ĕĞģ ĕď ěđĠ ěĕĕĒ ĔĥĕĜ ěĞģ ĖĕČ" "...ĔĜĞĢģČÿ ĘģĕĔĥ Čÿ ĔĕĚ ĥĕĝđĤ ĖČĀ ď ĔďĞĤ ĖĕČ Ęĕĕđđ" ,ĔĤĞĠĔĜĞĞĎ ĞďĚĞĤĠ Čÿ ĔĕĚ ĥĕĝđĤ ěďĞĤ ĖĕđČ ěĞģ .ĕč .ĕĥĒď .ĕĞģ ĕď ,ĔđĎ ,đĜ" .ĔĎČĀ ĒĞĎ đđČĀ ĚĕĞĥ ĔČĀ Đ "...ĔĜĞĢģČÿ ěđČ ĔĘĔĤĞđđĞĎ ĕđĒČÿ ĖĕĒ ěđČ ,ĔĤĕĢČÿ Őĥ ĎĕČđĤ ěčČĀ Đ ĕĕĒ 100 ěĞđđĞĎ ěĞĜĞĒ Ğďĕĕč Ēĕč ,ěĤĞďĜČÿ ęĞď ĤĞĜĕĕČ ĔđđČđĤŐĞĎĝĕđČ .ĥĕĔĜĞĔĕđČ ĒĕČ ĤĞĤĞďĜČÿ ĤĞď ĒČÿ ěĝČĀ ĘĥĔĜČÿ ĔĜĞĢČĀ ĤŐ ěĕĕĚ ĔĕĚ ,ČĀ ď ěđĠ ěĢĤĞđđĥĝĕđĤČÿ ĖĕĚ ěĎĞđđ đĔĝĎČĀ Ē ĝČĀ đđ" .ğĘČÿ Ĥ ĔĎĞĤĠĞĎ đđČĀ ĚĕĞĥ ĔČĀ Đ "?ĞĕĘĕĚČÿ Ġ ".ěĔČÿ ĜČĀ Ě 18 Ēĕč 12 ĞĔđĎ Čÿ ěĤĞĕđď ěĞģ ,ĞčČÿ ĎĠĕđČ ĞĤĞđđĥ" "?ĎĜČÿ Ę ĕđĒČÿ ĝĞŐĞ ĝČĀ đđ" ĔČĀ Đ ",ĞĕĢČÿ ĚĤČĀ ĠĜĕČ ĖČÿ ĝČÿ ěĘĞĔĥĔĝĞĠ ĖČĀ Ĝ ěĠĤČÿ ď ĤĕĚ Ęĕĕđđ" ĤĕĜĞĥĒďĜĕČ ĤĞď Ēĕč ,ďĜČÿ ĘĝđĤ ěĕČ ěĞĜČĀ ĕŐĥ ěĢĜČÿ ĘĠđĢĜĕĕČ ěĔĕĕģĕĤĞđđĥ ĔČÿ ĐĞĎ ěĤČĀ ĕ ĔČĀ Đ .ĕĞ .ĕĕČ .ĕĝ ĕď :ĤĞĕĤĠ ěđĠ ěĢĤđģ ěĕČ ĥĒČÿ ĜČĀ ĕŐĥ ĞĤČÿ čĢČÿ ĥĚđČ ěĞĎĜĞĤč đĢ ěČĀ ĔčĕĕĐ ĤĞ .ęĕČ ĔĕĚ ěĔĞčĤČÿ đĢ ĐĚėĝĐ ěČÿ ĔčĕĎ ěČĀ ĔĎĜĕĥČÿ đđ ěđČ ěČĀ ĖĕĒ ĔĎČĀ ĤĔ đđĞĥĔČÿ ģĘČĀ Ĕ ĤĞĔĜĒĕđĔ ĞĤĞđđĥ ĔĤĞđđĕĘĞď ĤĞ ĞėĘĞđđ ĖĤđď ĝĞĤĞĚČÿ ģ ĞĔĤĕģĕĔĝĕĠČĀ ĝ ĔĕĚ ,ĔĞčĤČÿ ĤĞ đČđđ ĞĕĤČĀ ĔČÿ ĤČĀ čČÿ Ę-ĤČÿ ďČÿ Ĥ ęĞĜđĠ ĤĞĜČÿ ģĕĤĞĚČÿ ĕď ĤĞčČĀ ,ďĜČÿ Ę ěĕĕĒ ěĔČĀ ĤĤČÿ Ġ Ęĕđđ ,ĤĕĢĕĠČĀ .ĕč .ĕĥĒď .ĕĞģ ĤĞĎĕĎĜČÿ ĤėĕđĐ Čÿ ,đđČĀ ĚĕĞĥ ĤČĀ Ĕģĕđđ .ěĔĜĞĚđģČĀ ď ĞĘđĠďĤĞđđ !ĎĜđĜČÿ Őĥ ĔĕĚ ĤĞĔĕĕđđ ĔĜĕĕĘ .ĞĕĢČÿ ĚĤČĀ ĠĜĕČ ĥĒČÿ ĜČĀ ĕŐĥ 'ĞĎĕĔėĕĤ' ĕď ĔČĀ Đ ĤĞ ĒČÿ ěėČÿ Ě ĤĞėĕĒ ĎĕďĜĘĞđđ ,ęĕČ ĔĕĚ ĖĕĒ ěĠĞĤĔ ˜ ‡ — ‚ ˜ – „   Žvk yvk Ž Žˆ‡{Ž ƒˆ†{Š ˆ~ˆx ˆy†Šp vk Žvk Š ƒˆ~vl y ™†vk œ„z | ~vl Žž˜k Š ~vl š ‡vl {{ ~‡œvk ŒˆŠp ‡ Kal an was a clown. He wasn't the type of entertainer that wore a gaudy clown suit and bright red button for a nose. His socks were both the same color and the front of his shirt had no polka dots. But he was a clown just the same. "What do you want from me? It's just my nature," Kalman would say with a thick accent. "I love to joke and make people happy." Making people happy was what he was good at. Wherever he went, there was usually a crowd surrounding him, laughing at his antics and chuckling at his witticisms. Children loved Kalman; his pockets were always lled with sweets, which he popped into their mouths at odd intervals. "Why did the chicken cross the road?" Kalman would solemnly inquire, and patiently wait for the response before o ering a clever repartee. Kalman didn't care if people thought he spent his days joking. He didn't worry about what people thought of him at all. But he needn't have worried, because everyone loved to be around him. Kalman's ready retorts were always witty, always original... usually sheer brilliance. Kalman the clown was a very happy man. Or so it seemed. But people who knew him well said otherwise. "Kalman never had a good day in his life," old timers who knew him would nod sagely as they spoke about him in hushed whispers. ey hinted of painful memories that had been suppressed for many years under a layer of jokes. But Kalman himself never alluded to those dark days. Whenever he was asked about his family, a shadow would cross his cheerful expression, and his face would darken imperceptibly. Before the questioner could probe, the moment would pass, and his face would be wreathed in another sunny smile as he shared an endless supply of jokes. Kalman preferred to live alone. He would have lived a solitary existence were it not for his great-nephew and only relative, who lived in the same community. "Uncle Kalman, you've got to come and stay with us, to liven up our home," Meir begged. At rst, Kalman the clown didn't want to hear of it. "I'm not going to be a burden on anyone," he said. But Meir didn't stop begging. When he saw that his pleas were ignored, he changed his tone. "Uncle Kalman, we need you here to liven things up a little, to bring some Simcha to our little Simcha." Simcha was Me who had autism own world, spend in a rhythmic, repe didn't speak or m anyone, remainin shell. When Kalman Simcha needed h tune. "If that's the ca come. Just give m my 'pecklech' and twenty years of can peels piled up in m Kalman the Cl seforim, packed h and within two d with the Konigs. same again for Me children. Now the table and a sprin If one of the boy long day at yeshiv Uncle Kalman with the late dished a cart refrigerator a the oor, it w to the resc scrambled as he race paper tow Many p knew Kalm closest to h really loved Ka him couldn't man is a clos say, shaking the AS OLD O: CHAYA SILBER The phone rang in the silent o ce. Sandy Boyer li ed the receiver and listened for a moment. “Sorry,” she said, for the tenth time that morning. “Mr. Weinfeld cannot be disturbed.” As she returned the phone to her desk, Sandy glanced over at Mr. Weinfeld’s closed o ce door. She had been his receptionist for over ten years and in all that time, she had never seen her boss look so concerned. e o ce was like a morgue this morning. Hunched over his desk, David Weinfeld heard footsteps in the corridor. He knew who it was before the door opened. Sandy wouldn’t have let anyone else in today, a er his strict instructions. Still, he waited a few minutes before looking up from his computer. Albert Silverstein stood in the doorway, displaying his usual engaging smile. “Ready for lunch, David?” he asked cheerfully. en, catching sight of David’s furrowed brow and slumped posture, he inched back uncertainly. "Anything wrong?" “Wrong?” David echoed. What was wrong? Everything was wrong. David didn’t even know where to start. It was tempting to ask Albert’s advice, but David knew that this was something he had to handle himself. “No, nothing’s wrong,” he nally said. Albert looked at him dubiously. “Did you say something about lunch?” David said, in an e ort to play it cool. “Sounds good. Let’s grab something to eat.” Albert glanced at his friend as the two of them made their way out of David’s o ce at the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. e two men had started out years before at the New York Fed, and they had taken business courses together at C.U.N.Y. Eventually, David had become executive vice president of the bank's nancial services department, while Albert headed the business development section under David’s supervision. Albert thought back to his rst encounter with David, twenty years beforehand: “Hi. I'm Albert Silverstein." PROLOGUE A Novel of Terrorisim & Betrayal K פי‡ן ˘ „ער בילי‡ן „‡לער ‰מכפל‰ ˙ מער YISKAH GOLD Maaras Hamachpeila PEEPHOLE YISKAH GOLD ;ǀVI %Q -# -- The old farmer was not what he used to be. Full of vigor in days gone by, he now lay on his bed, weak and listless. e old farmhouse seemed to shrivel together with him, paint peeling in the corners, faded wooden doors groaning on rusty hinges. Various odors competed for dominance; the sharp smell of medication, the earthy smell of sheep and cow, and one more smell which seemed to rise and assert itself above all others. e smell of death. His rheumy eyes looked out the window at the barren plot of land just outside his humble home. Beckoning to his three sons, standing around his bed, he whispered: “ at neglected property out there holds a secret. ere’s a treasure hidden deep, deep, underground. If you’ll dig it up, you’ll be made men.” As soon as he nished his words, he closed his eyes – forever. When the days of mourning were over, the three men headed towards the back garden. Armed with hoes and rakes and all sorts of garden paraphernalia, they worked feverishly. Sweating, they removed stones, dug up stubborn weeds, and turned over the earth. As they dug and dug, they uncovered rich black soil suitable for planting. ey had no time to think about it. Frantically, they searched for the prize their father had bequeathed them. eir e orts were in vain. e land kept her secrets under lock and key. After days of backbreaking labor, they gave up. e eld was not the trove they envisioned, and they went home, deeply disappointed. Months passed, spring arrived. Blessed rains, gently watered the abandoned eld. e soil drank thirstily. Little green buds began sprouting. ey grew taller and fatter, as the balmy weather caressed them. Di erent plants developed quickly. Wheat, squash, tomatoes and peppers. Colorful owers grew at the edges. Butter ies itted between them as bees hummed, searching for nectar. Paradise was revealed in the neglected property. One day the three sons returned. Nostalgia brought them back to their father’s farm. Entering the garden at the side of the house, they rubbed their eyes in disbelief. How had it blossomed so beautifully in their absence? Plump ripe fruit seemed ready for picking, while vibrant vegetables spread their green leaves far and wide. e smell was intoxicating. “It was our digging and weeding, that did it,” said the oldest to the others. ey nodded, overwhelmed at the unexpected abundance that met their eyes. “Perhaps this was the treasure father had hinted at,” remarked Where am I? (II) The Bankers Trust NEW! ניי! 2

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