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life, in fact, seemed so far removed from mine that we could not possibly have anything in common? My friend didn’t know, he wasn’t sure, he no longer remembered, really, his own meeting was so many months ago. Anyway, he said, in his case, the girl did most of the talking.
    Gitty, however, was not doing much talking at all. Fumbling for conversation topics, I finally asked about matters I already knew: whether she was still in school, how many siblings she had, whether she wanted to remain living in the village after our wedding. No, she shook her head, she’d already graduated some months earlier. Eleven siblings, she mouthed in a barely audible whisper. Yes, she nodded, she wanted to remain living here. I offered a few remarks about myself. I said that I hoped to continue my studies after we married, at least for a couple of years. She nodded in response. It was a given. Two years of study was mandatory for all married men in the village.
    She kept her eyes downcast at the table in front of her. When she glanced at me at one point, I quickly flashed the ear-to-ear smile my friend had advised, and she returned it stiffly. I thought she might offer a few questions or remarks of her own, but she seemed to have none. Soon I ran out of questions, and we sat in silence until Chaim Goldstein entered the room.
    “Are you done?” he asked.
    It wasn’t a question. Clearly, we were done. I had imagined a fifteen-minute meeting, but this couldn’t have been more than seven minutes. I was relieved it was over.
    We rode to the rebbe’s home, a short distance away, Gitty and I in separate cars. A few close friends and relatives milled about and greeted me cheerfully. They had been notified already, and they seemed happy for me. The rebbe’s attendant smiled, too, his usual gruff manner set aside for this joyous occasion, a new engagement.
    The men entered first and the women followed, while the rebbe smiled and waved his hand in a gesture of joy. The men gathered around the table, clearing a space so that the rebbe had a view of the bride, who stood among the women against the far wall.
    The attendant closed the door.
    “Mazel tov, mazel tov!” the rebbe said. “May it be a steadfast union. May you merit lasting seed to bring forth upstanding and blessed generations.”
    The engagement was final, the rebbe’s blessing like a judge’s gavel.
    The attendant placed a small tray of chocolate pound cake in front of the rebbe, and the men lined up to receive their portions from the rebbe’s hand while the women watched from the edge of the room. The men sipped from small cups of wine and lined up for blessings of l’chaim , “to life.” As the person of honor, I was first, and the rebbe held my fingertips for a long moment, mumbling a blessing, the same one he had mumbled to thousands of grooms before me. It felt cold and impersonal, the rebbe’s eyes shifty and restless as they searched for and then lingered on my bride, as if to include her from afar. I told myself that this was what I truly wanted. The rebbe had approved of the match. I told myself that I was pleased with it, that I must be pleased, because clearly the rebbe was pleased. I told myself what we, the rebbe’s followers, always told one another: The rebbe cares about us more than we do ourselves. Our joyous occasions bring him more joy; our sad occasions, more sorrow. I believed this, had repeated it to myself countless times, and had made myself believe this. I knew it must be so.

Chapter Three
    The first time I saw the rebbe, I knew little about him. I was thirteen years old, a student at the Skverer yeshiva in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, when I was told: “The rebbe is coming.” I responded with a shrug, and watched, amused, as a frenzy of anticipation took hold among students and staff. Broken table legs in the study hall were frantically repaired. Floors were cleaned and waxed. Guatemalan day laborers worked overtime to replace the wainscot paneling in