Eighteen: Twenty-two
by David Tuchman
“This is my punishment,” Moshe decides as Yoni’s minivan flips over the median on the Harlem River Drive and smashes upside-down into the asphalt, sending bits of shattered windshield skittering across the Amsterdam Avenue exit. “This is what I get for daring to speak.”
The car comes to a rest and Moshe is silent.
Moshe, who never missed a chance to read the weekly Torah portion in front of the entire congregation on Monday or Thursday or Shabbos, who relished every prayer and blessing as a chance to breathe God’s will into the world, is silent, his lips now pressed together, no sound able to escape. Not even a scream.
All he can see is Yoni’s ruined face, blood flowing like a waterfall from his chin to his forehead, his yarmulka—that constant reminder that God is always above—now dangling from the side of his head by a single hair clip like a dislocated limb.
He has no idea how long he is pinned to the passenger seat of the car, no idea when he is wheeled into a hospital room, no idea what to say when the cops ask him over and over again whether he saw the car that hit them. It is all a blur of flashing lights and pain.
He wants to shut it all out, but every time he closes his eyes, he sees Yoni’s inverted face, smeared and incoherent.
Why can’t it be Thursday morning again? Yoni would still be asleep five doors down in their dorm at Yeshiva University in Washington Heights, they’d still have a whole morning to spend studying Talmud together in the beis medrash, an afternoon in their halacha shiur learning the laws of family purity, the late-night Pirkei Avos class at their rebbe’s house in Kew Garden Hills with their classmates, this nightmare of a drive back from Queens yet to happen.
A doctor stands by Moshe’s bed, telling him how lucky he is that it’s just a few cracked ribs. Not even a concussion. Most people don’t walk away from wrecks like these.
“Where is he?” Moshe manages to ask.
“I don’t—who?” the doctor says.
The doctor is youngish, grinning in a way that makes Moshe furious.
“Yoni,” Moshe says. “The driver.”
The doctor shakes his head.
“I’m just the doctor on call. You’ll be discharged in a little while. If you’re looking for a patient, talk to reception.”
Even with all the painkillers, it feels like Moshe’s guts are being pushed through a meat grinder.
Back in the car—no, no, he can’t think of it. If this is his fault—
It had all been so much simpler when he and Yoni first met, when they were just best friends and nothing more, before Purim, before all the confusion.
It was the first day of freshman orientation and Moshe was still shaking off the provincialism of his tiny community in Cleveland. When he sat down for breakfast after shachris—the morning prayers—that first day, his heart sank. It seemed like everyone had already peeled off to reconnect with people they knew from camp or high school or something. And out of nowhere, Yoni appeared, this sweet-faced boy with a black hat and a hint of dark chest hair poking out over his white shirt, just to welcome Moshe.
“Hi,” Yoni said, sticking out his hand, “didn’t you lein this morning?”
Moshe did his best to smile back. Meeting new people was hard, but performing was easy. Before shachris started, he’d made his way to the raised platform at the center of the room—the bima—and asked the upperclassman there if he could read the Torah.
The senior looked Moshe up and down. “If you want it, it’s yours.”
Whenever Moshe leined, singing the words of the Torah in the traditional tune he’d spent so many hours memorizing, he thought about how these were God’s words, dictated to another Moshe on Mount Sinai thousands of years ago, and now he had the sacred duty of speaking them once again, both making these ancient words heard by the congregation and fulfilling the semi-weekly obligation to read the Torah.
Moshe shook Yoni’s hand, grateful his ploy had worked.
“Hi, I’m Moshe.”
“My name is Yoni. Your leining was beautiful. You have a great voice.”
Moshe could feel his cheeks tighten as he grinned. Yoni’s attention was infectious.
They spent every Shabbos together after that, every afternoon, every free moment they could. It wasn’t long before Yoni took Moshe back with him to Queens to meet his parents. They were stuck to one another.
#
The late-spring morning light floods the lobby at Columbia University Medical Center. To look at it is to go blind. Moshe wonders for a second if he missed shachris, tries to calculate how long it would take to get to take the train one stop up to the dorm, grab his tefillin and come back to pray, but he doesn’t want to wait any longer before finding Yoni again.
It is not difficult. Yoni is the one in the ICU surrounded by his weeping family, his sister Ariella leaning over the bed railing, his mother in a chair with her head in her hands, his father on the phone figuring out somewhere near the hospital to stay for Shabbos, and Yoni in the middle of it all, a hollow version of himself wrapped in blankets and hooked up to beeping machines.
Moshe stands, numb, watching Yoni’s chest rise and fall. He’s not sure if it’s the drugs still in his system, but Moshe is struck by how phony it all looks, like a diorama in a museum or a bunch of yeshiva boys dressed up in some kind of cautionary play.
Yoni’s mother pulls Moshe toward her. Even though his ribs ache, Moshe is grateful that Yoni’s family was never strict about things like shomer negiah—that Mrs. Laundenberg will still touch a man who isn’t related to her.
“Thank you so much for being here,” she says, her voice a ragged whisper.
The air tastes like cleaning supplies.
It started on Purim, and on Purim everything is different. Upside-down. Reversed.
They had been drinking—first at their rebbe’s house a couple of blocks from campus after megillah reading, then at an upperclassman’s apartment where they had l’chaim after l’chaim of whiskey—and suddenly they were in Yoni’s dorm room, the hall outside quiet. Moshe couldn’t remember drinking this much before. He felt like the entire world was off-kilter, like if he said the right words, everyone in it would be his friend.
Yoni’s hand was on his thigh.
Moshe’s heart felt like it was exploding into a thousand little pieces that bounced inside his chest like glitter. He looked into Yoni’s eyes, those sweet, caring eyes that never seemed to turn away from a classmate in need.
Yoni kissed him.
The glitter shot through Moshe’s entire body, filling his limbs, his legs, his brain. This was too much joy.
It was this moment Moshe came back to again and again, and despite the fog of drunkenness, this much was clear: Yoni kissed him. Not the other way around, as much as Moshe had wanted to. His heart seemed to rise six inches inside his body. He wrapped his arms around Yoni and they spent what seemed like hours in that embrace, their clothed bodies pressed against each other. Moshe wanted nothing more than to work his hands underneath Yoni’s shirt, to feel the rough hair that sometimes peeked out of his collar, to slide his hand down Yoni’s trembling chest, past his navel, beyond his waistband, into his pants, and—
No. They would kiss and cuddle, but nothing more. Moshe would be content with what he had. Every time thoughts of more entered his mind—thoughts of what the next day might look like, of pushing this further, whether they’d ever do this again, or if they would ever tell anyone—Moshe allowed the steady pace of Yoni’s breath to blow them away.
And then it was morning, and Yoni’s head was still on Moshe’s chest. For a moment, even the buzzing of Yoni’s alarm seemed pleasant. Then Moshe remembered where he was and what world he lived in.
Yoni lurched out of bed and turned the alarm off.
“We have to go. I’m reading the megillah at the 8 o’clock minyan.”
During the months that followed, Yoni said nothing about that night, leaving Moshe to wonder whether it had happened at all. Sometimes, late at night, Moshe lay in bed frozen by the fear that someone would find out, or worse: That Yoni, sneering and mocking Moshe the entire time, had told someone, even though Moshe knew Yoni was much too kind for something like that.
In the ICU, all Moshe can do is listen to the monotone chirp of Yoni’s machines as the day flows around him. The Laudenbergs speak to him and he speaks back. He isn’t sure what he says, but it seems to soothe them. They respond by nodding their heads and busying themselves around Yoni’s body. To Moshe, they all move like ants stuck in honey, too slow to be any help to Yoni. People in hospital uniforms come and go without saying a word, fiddling with Yoni’s machines and performing incomprehensible tests. Shabbos sputters by like one of those trains that shows up in a subway station just to pick up garbage, devoid of rest. Moshe has a vague awareness of davening, of someone bringing him his tallis, of making kiddush, of eating a meal in a room somewhere, but all he can really see is Yoni in the bed, his empty body powered by machines.
It happens sometime before havdalah, during the waning hours near the end of Shabbos, time Yoni and Moshe used to spend walking the halls of their dorm, visiting friends, the feeling of Shabbos still lingering in the air.
There is no Shabbos in the ICU. Only doctors and nurses rushing into the room, alarms beeping, Yoni’s family and Moshe receding from the bed as the medical staff moves in, working on Yoni. Moshe’s heart pounds inside his chest. He feels like his head is a balloon floating above his body, attached by a small thin string. Yoni’s father hugs his daughter and wife, holding them in a tight knot as he kisses his daughter’s forehead. Moshe can only hug himself. The hospital air is cold. The doctors move as though they are a single, many-armed creature attempting to revive Yoni. Moshe can sense that they are merely going through the motions just so they can say they did. So they can put it in their records.
There is a shuffling at the center of the room. And again. Moshe wonders what he’s even doing there. This isn’t his family. This can never be his family. This is just some boy he met at—
The motion stops and one doctor separates from the group. He says the words just loud enough for the rest of the staff to hear, as though he is mumbling a short prayer, speaking directly to God.
“Time of death, 9:03PM.”
In the Torah, God speaks and the world is created. It wasn’t until the doctor said the words out loud that Moshe truly felt that Yoni was gone. Thoughts are just thoughts, but speaking makes things real.
Something strains against the inside of Moshe’s throat. He wants to scream until his vocal cords are shredded and he is hoarse, but he knows he must stay quiet in this antiseptic space. His grief can be vocalized only in bitter sobs.
Yet where has silence gotten him? What if he had said something all those times he wondered if the way Yoni’s hand would brush against his as they walked to class was intentional? If he’d spoken up all those times he thought he’d caught Yoni staring at him? He couldn’t remember how often he’d stood outside the Pride Alliance club space, unable to open the door and walk in. To enter, to talk to someone about it, would be to speak it into the world. No matter how many blog posts from Rabbi Steven Greenberg he read in in incognito mode, those verses—Vayikra Perek Chaf-bet, Pasuk Yud-chet, Leviticus 18:22, the ones he was always “too tired” to read whenever their portions came around on Shabbos and Yom Kippur afternoon—were seared in his mind, a constant reminder of how he was sure the community would always see him. Even if places like Jewish Queer Youth said online that there were people he could be safe with, even if there must be others like him, living in silence. Even if he knew, deep within his bones, that the God he knew and loved couldn’t possibly have created him to suffer like this. He waited months and months, and when he finally spoke—
Yoni was silent now too.
Voices beckon Moshe out of the winding halls of the hospital and into the backseat of a car. He is dimly aware of Mr. Laudenberg driving, his thick dark hair spasming with sobs as he navigates the streets of Washington Heights. They stop in front of Muss Hall and Moshe, as if radio-controlled, rushes up to his dorm. He grabs a bunch of clothes and stuffs them in a bag while trying to avoid looking at anything that would make him think of Yoni. Which is everything.
Back in the car, streetlights splash over the car like prison searchlights.
“We were thinking you should say something,” Mr. Laudenberg says.
Moshe realizes how dry the inside of his mouth is. How long has it been since he’s spoken more than a couple of words? Hours? Days?
“What do you mean?”
“At the levaya. The funeral tomorrow. You can stay by us tonight.”
“I don’t think I can,” he says.
“You’re his—you were his chavruta,” Mr. Laudenberg says, “You studied together every day.”
The car accelerates and changes lanes. Moshe’s face feels hot. He rolls down a window.
“You’re Moshe!” Mr. Laudenberg says, “Yoni would want to hear you.”
Moshe wishes he could tell Mr. Laundenberg—tell anyone—about what happened the last time he spoke to Yoni.
They were in the car, heading back to school. The air was warm and the windows were down. Yoni sat the way he always did, hands at ten and two on the wheel, back straight. Always following the rules.
“Yoni…” Moshe began, hoping Yoni could somehow read his mind and jump in.
“What is it?” Yoni said, turning down the gemara lecture playing on the stereo. His eyes stayed on the road.
For all his confidence, Moshe was trapped. How could he say what his soul so desperately yearned to say? Even if Yoni ignored it, Hashem could hear the tiniest utterance.
“I want to talk about Purim.”
Moshe watched Yoni’s eyes, which stayed glued to the road. They blinked three times before he spoke.
“What about Purim?”
It felt like someone had grabbed Moshe’s chest and squeezed. He barely got his next words out.
“Please, Yoni. I can’t keep this inside forever.”
Yoni shouted. The first time Moshe had ever heard him shout, a rasping sound that would reverberate in Moshe’s head for what seemed like forever.
“I don’t want—”
And it came. A roar, the road replacing the sky through the windows, Yoni’s face locked in a grimace as the car slid across the road, the silence, the sounds, the pain.
Was it the distraction? Or was it the SUV that side-swiped them?
This is my punishment.
Moshe watches the highway speed by Mr. Laundenberg’s car. He swallows.
“I think I can find something to say,” he says.
#
Yoni’s whole world is there, shuffling into the sanctuary of his family’s shul and murmuring their condolences as they pass the mourning family. Moshe watches from the second row, the wooden pew stiff against his back. There are a few glances at him, some small head-nods, but that is the extent of his acknowledgement. The expected turnout was too big for any of the nearby funeral homes, he remembers being told, so they are at the large community synagogue instead. The room is filled with a chorus of sobs, the air musty with the scene of old prayer books and too many people. At the center of the bima is a bare cedar box. It is still. Inert. Almost invisible as it sits before the aron—the ark that holds the Torah.
It is smaller than Moshe expected.
The murmurs subside but the sobs do not. Those who can find seats are seated. The rabbi, a tall man with a wide-brimmed black hat, climbs the few felt-covered stairs up to the stage. He approaches the lectern, pulls some index cards out of his pocket, and places them down.
“I don’t have to tell you—”
The rabbi’s voice catches in his throat. His brow furrows.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “This is the first time I’ve had to—”
He tips his black hat back and runs his fingers through the tuft of hair that emerges.
The sobs in the room rise in intensity.
The rabbi begins again.
“I don’t have to tell you how much of a tragedy it is to lose Yoni Laudenberg.”
There is a wail from the back of the room. Moshe’s face feels hot. He grits his teeth and closes his hands into tight fists. He can’t see who the wail comes from, can’t know what that person is feeling, but he is sure there is no way its owner could be feeling a fraction of the pain that is gripping Moshe’s chest.
“All you have to do is look around this room,” the rabbi continues, “and you can see how much of an impact Yoni had on his community.” The rabbi pauses, letting his words linger. “On the people around him.” He pauses again, to make it clear he means the people in this room. “Not only was he a talmid chacham, who loved to spend his days learning in the bais medrash, but he was also a true ba’al chesed who never had an unkind word for anyone.”
The sobs in the room wash over each other like waves on a beach. One row in front of Moshe, Mrs. Laudenberg collapses into her own lap, her entire body convulsing with each whimper, as Mr. Laudenberg and Ariella huddle over her, rubbing her back.
“At this time, I’d like to ask Miri Laudenberg, Yoni’s mother, to say a few words.”
Mrs. Laudenberg looks up, her face streaked with tears. She slowly shakes her head.
Mr. Launderberg, his hand still on his wife’s back, looks at Moshe.
“It’s your turn,” he says. He turns and gestures to the rabbi.
“As I’m sure you can plainly see, Yoni’s family is quite shaken up,” the rabbi said. “Here to speak on their behalf is Moshe Shapiro, Yoni’s best friend.”
Moshe takes a deep breath to steady himself. He holds the railing as he ascends the steps, wondering if he’ll really be able to do this.
He reaches the lectern and looks out. From the stage, the room looks even bigger. People are packed in, standing shoulder to shoulder by the doors like it’s the final prayer of the most important Yom Kippur of their lives. An entire community—Yoni’s family and friends, Moshe and Yoni’s rebbeim and fellow students, what seems like every single person Yoni and Moshe had met together—united in grief. Moshe can’t help but think of another version of the world where this group is gathered, together with Moshe’s family, to watch a living and vibrant Yoni stand with Moshe under their chuppah.
But that world cannot be. And not just because Yoni is gone now. It is as though Moshe is looking at the crowd through a one-way mirror. He can see them as they are, gathered together to mourn the person they think they know, but they can only see a version of Moshe that reflects their own expectations back at them. As long as Moshe continues to inhabit the role he’s been cast in, only he can see his true self.
The room feels to Moshe like just another enormous coffin.
He breathes again and looks up.
“Yoni was special,” he says, in a voice that fills the space. “He didn’t say a lot. Didn’t give big speeches in shul or lead prayers. He wasn’t someone who liked attention. If he looked down from shamayim right now and saw this many people here, he’d be embarrassed.”
Moshe smiles, and a gentle chuckle ripples through the crowd, as if people are relieved to discover that laughing is still allowed.
“So when Yoni did speak to you, it was all the more special.”
Moshe feels warm tears on his face. When he looks down, he sees Yoni’s family beaming at him, enraptured by his words.
This feels good to say. To speak from the heart.
“Yoni was special,” he sputters again, and it sounds as though the entire shul weeps with him. “He made me feel special.”
Moshe needs to pause before the next part. He scans the room, feeling every eye on him, watching each face and trying to predict how it will react to what he is about to say, the grimaces, the mouths puffed out in anger, the reddening cheeks.
But Moshe has made his decision. If not now, then when?
“I…I loved him,” Moshe says.
It is done.
The moment he has long feared has come and gone. Moshe is surprised to feel relief at speaking these words, an antidote for the poison that’s been coursing through his veins, a breath of sweet air that he can finally taste again. He understands that God has known all along. Though he never said it out loud before, Moshe’s love for Yoni was obvious from the start. It was in every action Moshe took. Every word Moshe spoke to him. He didn’t need to say it. God knew. And Moshe’s connection to God never changed.
Moshe’s eyes are wet. He can sense the one-way mirror between him and the crowd melting away. Now that who he is has become visible, he braces himself for the crowd’s fury. But it does not come in any way Moshe can sense. Their sobs grow louder and more expressive. Their wails more frequent. It is as though with his words, all boundaries have been removed and the crowd is now free to express its pain as it wishes.
“I loved Yoni. I loved him with all of my heart and soul.” Moshe looks at the casket, trying to will Yoni back to life with his words. “I can’t imagine loving anyone more.”
His fingers feel sticky against the glossy varnish of the lectern. He steps back to compose himself. Mrs. Laudenberg is walking up the stairs to the stage, trembling, with Mr. Laudenberg close behind.
Moshe prepares for some expression of anger from Mrs. Laudenberg. But her arms wrap around him in a hug. He can feel her body heaving against his as she convulses in a weeping that seems to have taken over her entire self.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice hoarse. “Thank you, Moshe. That was beautiful.”
And Moshe understands. The hug is suffocating. His eyes catch the room’s exits, a series of heavy double doors along the wall. He could push through them and breathe the outside air in less than a minute.
Mrs. Laundenberg’s cheeks are wet and her eyes puffy. She releases Moshe, but keeps a hand on his shoulders.
“What a sweet, sweet boy,” she says. “We all loved him. We all loved Yoni.”
David Tuchman lives and writes in Brooklyn. His short story “Chelm, NJ” was selected for the second-place prize in the 2022 Moment Magazine-Karma Foundation Short Fiction Contest. For a while, he translated the Hebrew Bible as a joke, releasing it as a podcast and, subsequently, a newsletter under the title OMGWTFBIBLE.