The Nephew made his twice yearly visit to the Hungarian. He brought his family of six kids and his Tasmanian wife (who’d converted) to see the Hungarian. All four girls and two boys hated the drive up from Baltimore. The girls imitated their mother. The boys had tough football bodies. They wore tallis over their jerseys. They’d never even leave the Great Uncle’s house once they got there.

The Hungarian was beautiful. He was. The tiny man, a survivor of the Holocaust, made his fortune off nursing homes he owned throughout Brooklyn. There people chose to live in compounds to find comfort in their last days whether those last days lasted as long as internment or not. He ran them not as a kapo, betraying his own people but as a kind and caring man who felt befuddled by the problems of management, even as a young man (perhaps the result of physical and psychological trauma). The details about the people whose families could not continue to pay and so were thrown out onto the street were kept from the Hungarian. Mostly, they died thereafter. Then later his wife died.

Before that, in the Hungarian's own three-story house, it was just he and his wife. He watched from his porch people wander the streets falling into a black hole of failures. One missed payment led to another missed payment and the two problems led to another. The people tried to fight the wave but failures gained momentum. The Hungarian wanted to rescue these people and also rescue his faith. Together he and his wife decided to give the empty rooms in his building to the people who could not afford to pay.

The people who lived in his rooms felt ashamed. They barely studied the Torah as they had promised. When they saw the Hungarian they bent their heads and said good morning. Then they went back to their beds or walked around the neighborhood but east.

When his wife died, a smiling old friend who lived across the street, brought the “rabbi” (as the Hungarian was known in the neighborhood) a pot of chicken soup--every Friday. Then they ate together and smirked and said a few words about the Torah and then about the neighborhood. She would leave him the leftovers, which lasted till Monday. But she too moved. Neighbors were all moving to Monsey (and some to Florida) and/or dying and the “Rich Chinese were buying up everything,” they said. The rich Chinese were smoking a lot. They complained.

The rabbi walked around the block. He sat at home and looked at the paper. He walked upstairs. He walked downstairs. He sat on the porch. Under the bare bulb that made him glow like a prophet.

He had made his will to give the building to the people who lived there.

The nephew who had only known his uncle slightly from about 30 years earlier when he was just beginning to get old now had seven of his own children and they all lived in Baltimore. So they visited at most twice a year. The family saved the rabbi from his loneliness, they told themselves. They rolled their eyes but continued to do what they were told. “Poor man with too much and with an empty house,” the parents said, “abandoned, alone, no one to take care of him, except Mrs Schlitz who comes over every Friday and the Synagogue but over there, there’s so much fighting there and the neighborhood, it’s not so nice anymore.” They filled the house with voices. Made of the synagogue a crowd of boys. The secret table no seat empty. Plenty of children to ask questions. Adults to ask about the children. The rabbi to feign prideful indifference.

The kids asked questions at passover then exchanged glances with their mother who had caught a yiddish accent..

The rabbi was sick a few months then died. The whole neighborhood knew his wishes. The tenants knew his wishes. They watched the Nephew’s visits carefully counting them. What is penetrating the rabbi’s brain. Does he care

Is he sentimental does it matter that this pack from Baltimore who never had a connection to him but slightly now visits regularly. Is family family?