The phone call came at 5:30, and changed the deal completely.

At 5 o'clock Jairo Silverman was peacefully lighting up a cigarette; he had all the time in the world. He inhaled deeply and leaned back in his new recliner. His eyes drifted upward towards the beautifully paneled ceiling, and his thoughts roamed free and unfettered. From outside the window of his office, located on the 33rd floor of one of downtown's largest and most luxurious buildings, came the muted sound of thousands of automobiles roaring past on the highways. The shadowy echo sounded like the waves pounding the surf of Santos, the city he would be visiting in a few hours, as he did each weekend.

The office was closed to the public. His two partners in the law firm had left to their homes in the suburbs. Only Claudia, their faithful secretary, remained in the next room, the sound of her clicking typewriter keys mingling with his thoughts.

Jairo Silverman gave a satisfied glance at the smoke rings lazily drifting upwards. Up, up they wandered, vanishing soundlessly as they reached the ceiling. At that hour he was still quite pleased with himself. And with good reason: In his hand he held a draft of the contract between his firm and the German Automotive Company, GAC, whose factories, the largest in the world, were being built at the outskirts of Sao Paulo. The sheaf of papers grasped in his hand represented the fruits of two years of patient effort. His office had invested huge sums in the venture, in the payment of bribes in the right places, to the right people. Interesting that his close friend, Alberto Hunkes, one of the GAC's top executives, had refused to accept anything. Jairo tried to understand why. It was Hunkes who'd presented it to the factory's board of directors, giving his warm personal recommendation. He'd done so much behind the scenes. By rights, he deserved an "agent'sfee" from the law firm of Silverman, Machado and Chilo. Alberto's refusal had been a stubborn move on his part, Jairo thought, unheard of in Brazil, where every business deal was entwined with bribery as a matter of course, where graft was almost legal.

Jairo bent down towards his desk. It couldn't hurt to read through the contract one more time. By its terms their office would represent GAC in all legal matters, both in Brazil and throughout the world. Jairo gave a satisfied smile. This business would bring them money, a lot of money. Even more important, it would be a tremendous source of prestige. He could already see the long lines of well-known companies standing in his waiting room, asking his firm to represent them.

Just an hour ago, immediately before their departure from the office, he and his partners, Francisco Machado and Paulo Chilo, had decided that somehow they must repay Alberto Hunkes for the incredible service he'd done them. At the same time, Jairo had decided to personally show his gratitude. After all, Alberto had actually done this for him. Hunkes hardly knew his partners; his help in this matter had come from their deep personal friendship that had its roots in a fascinating chapter that began many years ago.

Jairo finished reading through the draft, making small changes here and there. Basically, the document looked fine. He took one last look and bellowed,"Claudia!"

The door flew open. "Si, senhor?"

Jairo handed her the draft. "Take this, por favor. Put aside whatever you're doing and take care of this contract. I need four copies as quickly as possible. Ta serto?"

"Si, senhor," she answered politely.

"Thank you," Jairo added, with a broad smile.

After a moment Jairo once again heard the typewriter keys clicking energetically.The monotonous rhythm was like a song to his ears.

It was then that the telephone rang.

The jarring sound of the phone rudely broke the peaceful silence of the office. With a weary and impatient gesture, Jairo lifted the receiver. Clients who insisted on telephoning after office hours always infuriated him. And yet his natural curiosity, his desire to know who was calling so late, always overcame his anger. He answered the phone.

"Hello?"

His studied indifference as he sat in his leather armchair slowly disappeared, to be replaced by an increasingly serious and concerned mien. His eyes dashed nervously to and fro. He sat erect, emitting only one short word over and over throughout the conversation: "Si...si...si...si..."

His hand, wrapped around the receiver, suddenly felt heavy. Before replacing it slowly on the phone he asked one question: "When did it happen?"

The voice at the other end of the line whispered something. Jairo did not answer, merely shook his head in a motion of anguish. When he'd replaced the receiver, he held his head between his hands. After a moment, he dialed his wife, already waiting for him in Santos.

"Paulina, it's me, Jairo. There's been a change in plans. I'm not coming tonight. I must remain in Sao Paulo. I'll be there tomorrow...yes...yes...not now...I'll explain everything tomorrow...tomorrow...when I arrive...In the meantime, go without me. Watch the children. Chau."

The next call was to his partner, Francisco Machado.

"Hello, Francisco, amigo, cancel your weekend plans, at least until tomorrow afternoon. Bad news! Alberto Hunkes is dead. Yes, yes - dead. They don't know yet from what. Sudden death. Paulo called and told me. I don't know how he heard. The funeral, tomorrow, at ten. At the Catholic cemetery in Villa Mariana. What about the contract? How should I know? After the funeral we'll return to the office and see what must be done. Chau."

Jerusalem, Israel
1 Iyar 5727 (1967)

With a final roar of its engine the Egged bus arriving from Tel Aviv came to a halt in Jerusalem's Central Bus Station. The hot, dry air of the holy city enveloped the few passengers who descended, one by one, during this afternoon hour. Yitzchak Austerlitz was the last one off. He stood on the platform for one minute, straightened his black hat and, giving his Chumash a gentle kiss, jammed the sefer into his slightly shabby attache. He hurried past the many city bus stops without pausing; his feet already recognized"his" stop. His heart churned with the emotions he always felt when entering Jerusalem. For almost a year he'd been making these weekly trips, arriving every Thursday and traveling to Bayit Vegan, to the yeshiva where his son Yaakov Yehoshua learned.

Yaakov Yehoshua! Just repeating his son's name made his heart beat faster.This weekly visit had become a necessity, one he couldn't miss. And yet he realized, without a doubt, that he'd had to send his only son away from home to learn. In this way, his son would fulfill the obligation, "Exile yourself to a place of Torah." But how the father suffered from thedecision! Only when his young son, 14-year-old Yaakov Yehoshua, was near him, only when he saw him, did his fears that were with him constantly, day after day, recede somewhat.

"Yankele, your father's waiting for you outside!"

Yaakov Yehoshua's young friends had become accustomed to these regular visits, so different from those of their parents.

The father gave him a warm kiss. "What's new?"

"Baruch Hashem, fine," answered the son.

"Imma sent you the cake that you like."

Yaakov Yehoshua took the proffered cake, smiled at his father, and said,"Thanks a lot. Tell Imma it's a party for my friends when she sends us her treats."

The father gently touched his cheek. "How's the learning?"

"Baruch Hashem, good."

"And what about a d'var Torah?"

Yaakov Yehoshua knew that for the weekly visit he must prepare a d'var Torah based on the gemara he was learning. It was something his father expected of him, and he couldn't refuse. His father had actually learned in Yeshivas Chachmei Lublin, with the revered Rav Meir Shapiro, z"l, in the years before its destruction. And yet, at this moment Yaakov Yehoshua wondered if his father, standing beside the stairs at the yeshiva's entrance, heard a word that he'd said. He was telling him a chiddush on the sugya, but his father's thoughts were clearly elsewhere. As always, when the boy had finished, he earned his father's kiss, a kiss accompanied by a deep sigh.

Afterwards, Yitzchak Austerlitz made the rounds of the maggidei shiur, and exchanged a few words with the mashgiach. Usually, this day did him a lot of good. His son's teachers were generous in their praise of him, his diligence, his excellent character, the fear of G-d that underlay his every action. What more could a Jewish father ask for?

Whenever this thought passed through Yitzchak Austerlitz's mind he would give still another deep sigh, as a quiet voice coming from deep within him whispered: What more could a Jewish father ask for? There is something for which to ask.

As always, Yitzchak gave his son a long farewell hug, warm and strong, though he knew that it made Yaakov Yehoshua uncomfortable. It was embarrassing, to have all his friends see his father's feelings for him. Yaakov Yehoshua tried to pull away, but gently.

But this time, for whatever reason, his father seemed more emotional at their parting, and the hug was even stronger than usual. Yitzchak Austerlitz felt that he couldn't control himself. Tears fell from his eyes.