The World to Come – Yaron Dotan
March 28, 2026
Itzi’s wife shimmied her head from side to side, testing the new wig in the mirror. It was made of a young woman’s hair, thick, with a quality luster, expensive. But did it have to be so blonde, so spot lit, like a halo? Yes, it was a special day, but you’d think she was getting married. And do you know how much the floor length dress with the sequins set him back? Not to mention the antique broach and the gold earrings. Yes, he was boss, but he also did the back breaking work, not just Abdul and Alonzo, bedsteads and boxsprings on and off the truck, up stairs, so many you wouldn’t believe, around tight corners in prewar buildings without a nick or a scratch, little miracles that took their toll on your muscles and soaked your scalp.
“I want to look like an angel, tonight,” Mushky sighed dreamily, fogging the mirror.
Itzi tightened the loop of his tie only to realize that the wide end was too short. He heard a loud thump from the living room and all five children shrieked with mischief. Mushky didn’t even flinch. At odd moments throughout the day, Itzi found his heart racing in his chest, filling him with the fear that everything was going to hell. The previous month’s incident wasn’t helping, a minor but not unwarranted scuffle with the landlord’s nudnick son.
He unraveled his tie and started again.
But that was only his wife’s latest excuse for refusing his affections. There were bigger reasons. She had changed after the twins. Now the sink was filled to collapse, the garbage overflowed, toys scattered like debris, that lingering sour smell, and this week––ants. Long highways of them marching back and forth from the crack in the kitchen. But was he entirely to blame for her suffering? He tried to talk to her about the positive aspects. Wasn’t she proud of the grand old beds with the wooden carvings that the widow Nussbaum had left them when she moved to the nursing home? They could never afford their equal. Maybe some Shabbos afternoon they could even push them together.
In time he sought counsel from the rabbi, and the rabbi did speak to her, but things had only deteriorated from there. As soon as he came home from work, she took off. Continually unavailable. How many nights had he spent all alone changing Yehudis and Dovid’s diapers, warming Shalom’s baba, and tolerating Moishe’s animal impressions? And the day before, when Yechiel had one of his fits and Itzi had to turn the house upside down looking for the noise-cancellers? He had been left to drown. And why? So Mushky could hold court at Mendel’s Kosher Pizzeria? Gab and glad-hand widows and old maids? Suss out small businessmen with thin beards?
He was furious. At his wits end. But he had to hand it to her. This time she’d really landed herself a whale. And he was happy for her, truly. His father had always said that everyone was entitled to their shot at the world to come. Unquestionably. But Itzi was growing increasingly concerned about this world. He watched her in the mirror, running her fingers through the blonde hair, dreamy-eyed, like she was just now at the gates of paradise.
He untied his tie again.
And he was not without compassion. Especially when he considered how low she’d had to go when she married him. She had been robbed, no doubt. Wings clipped. Had it not been for her mother’s foolishness, so impulsive, so thoughtless, so catastrophic. Anyway, aleha hashalom. But still, if not for that a woman of Muhsky’s pedigree would have been matched with a top-level Talmud student, and not with a furniture mover.
Not that he had anything to be ashamed of. Wasn’t the almighty also a mover in his way? Had he not raised the mountains and dug out the oceans? And besides, hadn’t he done his best to be a good husband all these years, ignoramus though he was?
Itzi blamed it all on her talk with the rabbi. Because of him she had become increasingly preoccupied with the old Hassidic belief that if you made three matches that led to marriages with enduring love then you were guaranteed entry to paradise. That’s when she got into the match-making business. At first, he’d baulked. But she stood her ground. Did he really want her to wallow in this punishment forever? Someone had to aspire. Someone had to salvage Hope. And what help was he? He wasn’t a scholar like Sruel, Devoraleh’s husband, the neighbors down the hall. She couldn’t climb the ladder of his Talmudic successes to get to the good place. She needed to do it for herself. Some women were awarded paradise like it was nothing. They walked on clouds. Just one well-placed match and they were set. Well, she was no fatalist. She was a modern woman, orthodox though she was in all respects, and in spite of unfortunate setbacks she would take her destiny into her own hands.
Yes, there was something to admire about her wish for agency. But why at another’s expense? And besides, what could anyone really know about other couples or how enduring their love was? Only they could know. Maybe you could guess, but that was a far cry from certainty. He wanted to say this to her, even if he already was on thin ice. But another voice in his head urged restraint. Don’t say anything. Don’t question her logic. Certainly not this evening, when she was on the cusp of glory. What was that thing his father had always told him on these occasions? Something or other was the better part of valor. What’s the difference? Let her think whatever she wants.
But that sort of thing never came easily for Itzi.
“Don’t you think that you’re counting your chickens a little too soon?” he asked.
Mushky turned around slowly and looked at him with the full, direct power of her personality, as if she was speaking to an impudent child, so striking with her blue eyes, the golden wig, and the aura of victory. This was the best match she had ever made, a dazzling coup that everyone was talking about. The whole neighborhood was gathering that evening to celebrate the wedding, and the dance floor would shake with jubilation. With some you couldn’t tell if it was a match for life, but this one was different. Basya was from an old rabbinic family, an aristocrat with long fingers and fine features who was descended from great Talmudic geniuses. And the husband, Dov, came from a wealthy family of diamond dealers. He was handsome and broad shouldered, with honey-colored sidelocks bobbing from his temples. And best of all, this was Mushky’s third big match, and three was three. It was truly a shining moment.
And yet he still felt compelled to needle her. “I still don’t see how the Edelmans count.”
“It’s simple. I matched them, and their love endured.”
“They’re dead.”
“Old people die. But their love endured up until the end.”
“Three years?”
“Who are we to question Hashem’s plan? The point is that it endured until the end.”
“But the Franzblaus,” he pressed on, “have yet to endure, no?”
Chaya’s story was a sad one. Her former husband was involved in an unthinkable scandal at the yeshiva. It was a disgrace even to mention Akiva––may his name be erased. The young scholar was discovered kissing another student in the sanctuary by the head rabbi. The old man was so dismayed that he clutched his chest and keeled over. The students exploded with outrage and ran the two feygeles out of the Yeshiva. They chased them down Eastern Parkway, shouting and throwing stones. Itzi had just then been stepping out of his truck when the commotion tumbled his way. He saw the red faces, the black shoes clapping in hot pursuit, avenging what he had no idea, but there was such turmoil that when Akiva ran by, he kicked him in the behind. If it all hadn’t happened in such a public way and if the rabbi hadn’t received open heart-surgery, it might have been covered up. Maybe the rabbi could have counseled. But as it was Chaya had no choice but to divorce Akiva. Now, thanks to Mushky, she was married to Mechuel, a rug merchant who was a head shorter than her and two decades older. How was a match like this going to endure? She so pretty and he with the hair in his nose, like one of his rugs?
“Mechuel is crazy about Chaya, and she would never leave him.”
“That’s enduring love?”
“Yes,” she said, emphatically. “Chaya knows that she would end up with far worse a third time around. And besides, she has a big heart, and now she has a big belly.”
Mushky sniffed. “That bad smell is getting worse.”
It was getting worse, Itzi thought. He yanked his tie out from around his neck and threw it onto the worn carpet. “Well then, how about helping me clean for a change!”
Mushky’s cheeks flashed from scarlet to crimson before she erupted. You want to talk about making a mess? They were still reeling from the aftermath of his actions.
He turned away, pale from her outburst, and started sniffing under the pretense of looking for the source of the bad smell. The landlord’s son. His real name was Leib, but everyone called him Lip Licker behind his back because of the compulsion that left his lips looking like raw chicken. He was moving into an oversized house in Flatbush, three-stories off East 23rd, gifted by the father-in-law. Because he was the landlord’s son, Itzi took extra precautions and added precious hours to make sure the job was done correctly. Eight beds, a nine-part sectional, boxes enough to build another wailing wall. By the time he had finished loading the truck his eyes were stinging from the sweat streaming down his forehead. When he secured the bolt in the back of the truck, Lip Licker stomped onto the scene in his expensive shoes, already ranting. He didn’t like the way Itzi was handling the furniture, and he was going to hold back some of the payment, how much he would soon say.
Itzi shouldn’t have said that people usually didn’t rob him when their stuff was in his truck. He also shouldn’t have called Leib a loudmouth imbecile. But he definitely shouldn’t have called him by his nickname.
Luckily, there was a pacifying force in the room, Rochel, his wife. Itzi had always admired her, a modest woman and a real lady. Enough Leib, she said, gently. But Lip Licker was too far gone. He spun around and shouted for her to go into the kitchen. Itzi was astonished. How could Lip Licker speak to her this way? And in front of a stranger? Yes, she came from a humbler background, but she was the mother of his children. When Lip Licker turned back, Itzi punched him in the mouth.
Lip Licker’s father ended up covering the full cost of the move. No one wanted to plead this case in front of the rabbi. But before long Itzi’s business took a hit. And the following month not everyone’s rent went up, but Itzi’s did.
He reached under Mushky’s bed and pulled out one of Shalom’s baby bottles, its contents gone yoghurty. Then he turned around to meet his wife’s fiery eyes.
“And what about us, Mushky?” he asked, “Has our love endured?”
The synagogue was packed. There were hundreds of faces, including the old rabbi, now in a wheelchair, and all the yeshiva students. The men were in black caftans on one side, and the women in their finest gowns on the other. The heads of children popped out from between their parents like so many flowers after the rain. It was one of the largest gatherings in the history of the synagogue. Dov, the groom, wore a fur lined shtreimel on his head and silk stockings on his calves. His beard and sidelocks were as shiny as amber held up to the sun. The bride was dressed elegantly in white and veiled. Only her slender hands were exposed.
Itzi’s heart was racing during the ceremony. Normally, he felt joy at weddings. He got teary-eyed at the sight of a couple under the chuppah. Now he kept shifting between lightheadedness and rage. As the rabbi read the clauses of the marriage contract, Itzi spotted his wife’s yellow wig across the synagogue, mixed in with the brown ones. There she was, he thought, staring dreamily at the bride, admiring the pearls sown into the neckline of the wedding dress. Itzi gritted his teeth, because he knew well enough what she was thinking about. How many times had she repeated her mother’s words, that souls in the world to come wore robes woven from the good deeds performed in life. And here she was envisioning her ideal garment, with this special day embroidered into it, glowing with godly love.
Crunch! The groom crushed the glass.
The men burst onto the dance floor, jumping up and down joyfully, hands on shoulders, winding around the ballroom, shaking the floor in honor of Basya and Dov. The music blared from the stage, led by Reb Nachman and The Schlemiels, the latest sensation. Itzi wallowed in the corner, hovering over the tables of pickled whitefish and onion, egg kichel cookies, and the honeycomb of a hundred shot cups filled with spirits. He downed one and then another. His throat was on fire, and his eyes watered as he watched the black coated men bouncing and swaying. And then for an instant he spotted the groom flashing his smile. Baruch Hashem, Itzi thought, the man has it all.
Itzi reached for a fourth shot, when he felt a hand on his arm. It was Mechuel the rug merchant. He was raising a shot glass. “To Mushky!” He was rosy cheeked, had gained weight. He actually looked happy. “May she reap her reward.”
Itzi grimaced. “It’s more than I can do for her.”
Mechuel clinked his glass on Itzi’s and gulped it down. “She will put a good word in for you.”
As Mechuel walked off Itzi’s eyes landed on the wall of white damask cutting across the room, the mechitza keeping the men on their side. It shimmered in the bright overhead light, rustling with errant elbows and hips as they brushed by, the only hint that another world was gathered on the other side, of dancing women. He could all but see Basya in her jeweled gown sitting on her bridal throne while the women danced in circles around her. He knew Mushky, and he knew that the sight of Basya’s grandeur on this, her third match, would fill her with ecstasy. But there was more. Itzi knew that once the dancing slowed down Basya would invite Mushky to receive a blessing. Mushky would look in the woman’s dark brown eyes searchingly. Basya’s soft voice always deeply affected her, delicate, but filled with authority, and bearing an uncanny resemblance to her mother’s. When Basya blessed her Mushky wept. Like when she discovered her mother face down on the carpet with the pill bottle. Her father was yelling into the phone, there were lamentations from the hallway, sirens blaring, and all the while her mother deliriously mumbling blessings until her heart gave out. Her suicide altered the entire course of Mushky’s life. She could never recover, try as she might, not for her unsuitable husband and not for the brutes she made with him. Except that now…
“Itzi––” The man had a big boned head with a deflated face and a gray beard. It was Akivah’s father. He used to be a respectable member of the community, a pillar, a scholar, and in one day his world was turned upside down. And there was no coming back from it. A permanent stain. He squeezed Itzi by the shoulder, a warm affectionate man that Itzi always tried to avoid, and only because he felt bad about kicking his son. The whole neighborhood had gone completely berserk, and he had gotten caught up in the moment. What could he say?
“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled, “but I got caught up in the moment.”
Akivah’s father looked at him quizzically and laughed. “Come now, give me a l’chaim,” he said, raising two shot glasses. Itzi took one. They clinked and knocked them back.
Itzi wiped his mouth. “You’re a learned man. Why is it that the matchmaker doesn’t have to have enduring love?”
“What are you talking about, boychick?” he said, raising his warm, liquidy eyes to Itzi’s.
“The three matches––the matchmaker––the direct line to Olam Haba.”
“Come now,” he said, chuckling. “You don’t take that sort of thing seriously now, do you? This practice is neither supported by the Talmud nor was it written about in the Torah. It’s just an old folk belief. In fact––”
But Itzi was already staggering into the crowd like a marionette in a daze. He clopped blindly through the mass of yeshiva students only to trip and collide with a man in a fine silk caftan. The man turned around and looked Itzi in the eye. It was Reb Lip Licker, flanked by his two hulking sons. His lips were still swollen from the punch. The two men stared each other down. Itzi couldn’t help but think of the grief the man had caused him––and for the way his wife had used the incident as a cudgel. All he wanted to do was punch him in the mouth again. But he knew better. It was better to settle things with words. Say something, Itzi told himself, anything, just don’t apologize. Just don’t say that you’re sorry. But when he opened his mouth, he heard himself say, “I’m sorry.” Lip Licker smiled with amusement.
Itzi barged onto the dance floor, and the music boomed in his face. The men in the conga line brushed past him, roaring with delight, beards waving, black hats bobbing. At the head of the line was the rabbi himself, being pushed in his wheelchair, pumping his fist. And then Itzi saw the groom’s head rising over the madness as he was lifted onto Big Gedaliah’s shoulders, a blazing smile beaming through his golden beard. And Itzi knew why. He had just emerged from seclusion with Basya, their first time alone together as husband and wife, had no doubt touched her for the first time. Itzi remembered being alone with Mushky after the ceremony. When he tried to kiss her, she wept. In one moment, your whole life can change. Then Itzi was grabbed by Lip Licker’s sons. What’s this? His heart raced as they raised him onto their shoulders. The groom smiled at him with recognition, igniting a fantasy in the furniture mover’s mind. Itzi imagined loving eyes greeting him after a day’s work, the smell of something roasting in the kitchen, well-scrubbed children ready for bed. And on Shabbos the beds are pushed together. Itzi danced, buoyed by his vision, and blinded by the yellow overhead lights. Big Gedaliah and Lip Licker’s sons carried them in circles, round and round, faster and faster. The clarinet yowled. Yellow light, blonde hair, yellow light. Tonight, Dov would hold his new wife, press his full lips against hers, both filled with spiritual love. And then there were cries of delight as four yeshiva boys raised the rabbi in his wheelchair over their shoulders. Be careful! a chorus of voices shouted over the music. They brought him to Itzi and Dov. And all Itzi wanted was to kiss Mushky for once without her shrinking away from him. The men started dancing in the other direction now, faster and faster, yellow light, yellow light. Then the groom threw his hands up in the air, and his smile was like the sun breaking through clouds. Instead of raising his own hands, Itzi braced them behind Dov’s head, pulled his mouth to his, and kissed it.