LatinosUSA

“It was just a digital painting. Are people really that bored? That rich? That stupid?”

For Nachman and Anya Silverberg and their extended families, there was no “business as usual” during the pandemic. Rather, there were a series of crossroads, at each of which uncomfortable decisions had to be made. Sometimes, their choices were guided by Torah’s sagacity. Sometimes, not. Always, those spouses and their dear ones were impacted by the decisions that they made on commerce.

“I knew that eZines like my work, but collectors? I’m still surprised!” Anya shook her head at her husband. Her offerings had surfaced in a roundabout way.

More exactly, Anya’s father, Shmuel Samuels, had had a sudden heart attack. While he was recovering in a rehabilitation center, Anya’s mother, Miriam, had taken over the family’s bookkeeping and had discovered an extraordinary reduction in their fortune.

That loss had not been caused by Shmuel’s medical bills, but by an ill-advised investment that he had made a decade earlier. In simple terms, a Ponzi scheme had sucked up the family’s savings. In response, Miriam had pressed Emanuel Weinberg, a lawyer and family friend, into aiding them in recouping funds where possible.

Meanwhile, Anya had schemed with Nachman. “Is this token business really legal? Ethical? It would be great to be able to pay down Mom and Dad’s bills, hire an aide for Dad, and, maybe, make double payments on our mortgage.”

Nachman hugged his generous wife. Not he, her parents, nor any of their close friends had expected Anya’s efforts to bring home dinner. They never dreamed she’d quickly sell that electronic depiction of  “new wages,” i.e., that digital painting of a dog trotting in a suburban development while holding a cellphone, not a hunk of meat, in its mouth. In truth, her art had caused a bidding war.

Within minutes, Anya had earned enough to pay for a month of mortgage plus 5% of her father’s hospital bills. Moreso, not one among either of their families had ever considered that strangers, particularly folks with untraceable IPs, would be willing to pay five digits for the full rights to such “art.”

“Yours are good ideas, but you’ve already sold that ‘stellar’ image. What else can we do to raise cash?” asked the gentle soul whom Anya had married.

“I could create another picture.”

“Imagine upgrading to a freestanding home, instead of staying in this apartment, and doing so before we hit forty! Imagine being able to help out your mom, who’s worried crazy, and your dad, who’s so incapacitated as to be oblivious to his financial ruin.” Nachman Silverberg, scion of the Silverberg Jewelry Family, exclaimed as he hugged  his wife.

That man had never imagined getting married. One by one, he had attended the chuppot of his yeshiva friends. Correspondingly, one by one, he had attended the brit milot of their sons. In the same way, one by one, those friends had stopped communicating with him as his presence, as a single, was awkward for their wives.

So Nachman had been reduced to relying on the kindness of his parents’ generation. Aunts and uncles and senior business associates spent years inviting him to their Shabbot meals. While he enjoyed their tables, he met few age-appropriate, eligible women.

Nevertheless, mere months before his thirty-eighth birthday, he had stood under the chuppah with Anya Rosenberg. “Dr. Rosenberg,” as she was known in academic circles, was adept at outdated digital communication practices, and, like Nachman, inexpert at dating. Until her grandfather, Pilar Alkana, the proprietor of a diamond factory in Antwerp, had suggested Nachman, Anya, who was already thirty-two, had kept her sights focused on tenure, not on marriage and motherhood.

All things considered, Anya was seven months pregnant when she sold her cellphone-carrying dog image. One of her graduate students, a young man privy to Anya’s habitual scribbling, had enlightened her about NFTs. “Anya, your work could be profitable. Why not sell?”

So, the young professor had submitted her piece to an art dealer, who had immediately promoted it. He had only asked for a fifteen per cent commission. Consequently, he had earned thirty thousand dollars. As per Anya’s research assistant, she had included his job in her next grant proposal. Additionally, she had given him with a very generous gift card to a science equipment website.

Anya regarded her beloved husband. “Make another digital image? You didn’t like the first one, saying it was kitschy, at best. Yours ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ were merely meant to humor me.”

“Yup. Shalom bayit’s invaluable.”

“I love you, Nachman Silverberg.”

Nachman and Anya had settled in Teaneck, from where Anya commuted to Rutgers and Nachman shuttled to West 47^th Street. Their Shana Rishona had been filled with undersalted chicken soup and forgotten Shabbot bouquets as well as much laughter. Each considered themselves to have arrived at a measure of happiness that they had never believed possible.

“How long does it take you to create such things? What do you need? Do you have a muse or do you just need to interact with your tetchy graduate students?”

“Those collaborators are so brilliant that they make my head hurt. On balance, they know a lot more about convergent media, by dint of lived anecdotes, than me. However, most days, they’re neither cantankerous nor puckish.”

“Whoa Doc, us peons need plain language.”

“I love you! I’m so grateful that we met! I’m ecstatic that we married! As per my digital art, mostly I scrawl when I’m very tired in order to quiet my internal censor. Given my, I mean our, bump, I’m almost always very tired. So, it’s probable that I’ll finish another electronic painting before giving birth.”

“Teach me color theory, The Golden Mean, other aesthetics! I understand only cut, color, clarity, and carat.”

“Silly! My squiggles are random. They’ve always been.”

“?”

“You should’ve seen my high school notebooks.”

“Predates me. Anyhow, how can I be supportive?”

“More kisses. I never get enough.”

A few weeks prior to Anya signing off on her second sale, an anonymous “buddy” sent Nachman a notice. That mysterious correspondent claimed that Nachman’s extracurricular involvements with digital currencies, all of which ignored international trade sanctions, if publicized, would embarrass the Silverberg Family as well as imperil his wife’s future with non-fungible tokens. Accordingly, that “friend” offered to “forget about” Nachman’s pecuniary activities if Nachman deposited $50,000 in a specified PayPal account.

Nachman had hoped not to tell Anya about his “private investments.” Now, he also had to weigh whether to disclose his communications with the extortionist.

A few days later, when Anya was trying to get hold of the high risk obstetrician entrusted with her care, a curious email popped up in her inbox. She opened it. She has been named a Visiting Scholar at Oxford and was being offered a temporary teaching and research position, there. The British powers that be had invited her to enlighten them and their students about the rhetoric of corporate social responsibility. Typing simultaneous with dialing her cellphone, Anya pondered the offer’s ramifications.

First, though, she would have to get through to the medical office; she wasn’t eager to be admitted to a hospital without support. The puddle beneath her chair and the lack of movement in her abdomen indicated that it was time for her to go. Whereas slicing, dicing, and drugging were not how she had envisioned childbirth, had she not had three prior miscarriages, Anya might have embraced homebirth.

While she waited on hold, simultaneous with packing an overnight bag, Anya recalled that she had applied to Oxford during the span when she had reconciled herself to being a spinster. She couldn’t be faulted that her peers had belatedly accepted her submission. Her lone element of culpability was her ongoing unwillingness to share the information about her tender with her husband.

Sighing and then, again, redialing, all the while searching for her car keys,  Anya resolved to tell Nachman about the offer once she was clear of her medical current. Maybe, he would be willing to temporarily relocate to England. Maybe, he’d be willing to be the primary care provider for their child; Oxford opportunities are rare.

Anya stopped dialing and buckled into her car. She prayed. She hoped there would still be a child and that if there was one, that it would be healthy. Professional accolades were so less significant than family.

Eventually, she got to the hospital. Her doctor’s partner, who was on rotation, ordered an emergency C-section.

Anya wanted no part of that highly invasive plan. She asked, instead, to be given tocolytics and steroids.

The medical professional politely refused. If Anya’s child was not born immediately, there might not be a child.

Anya reluctantly consented.

As she was being wheeled into the operating theatre, a nurse called Nachman and Anya’s parents. All were present by the time that she was released from surgery.

Her baby, a girl, was alive, but had been rushed to the NICU. An amniotic leak, which had not self-sealed, had caused the wee one to stop moving. It could be months until she was cleared to go home.

In the interim, Anya suffered a hemorrhage. Nonvaginal deliveries do nothing to help uteri contract. Moreover, since Anya’s baby was being fed through a tube, Anya was not nursing, hence, had no perfect source to stimulate oxytocin release, that is, nothing to encourage her smooth muscles to return to their prepregnancy state.

For days, Nachman slept in a chair next to Anya’s bed, leaving her only to take bathroom breaks, grab coffee, or give Miriam private time with her daughter. In each instance, he’d hurriedly return to his wife. His meals had become pizza and burger deliveries and whatever Anya left over on her trays. Temporarily, he had a heter to daven privately, rather than with a minyan. Normal obligations would return once Anya was stepped down from critical care.

That last instruction had confused Nachman. He considered that only The Almighty is capable of ruling over life and death and considered prayers to be a direct conduit to G-d’s ears. Then, again, since Nachman couldn’t comprehend what it would be like to lose either his daughter or a wife, he abided by his rabbi’s directive.

For three days, the new husband watched medics come and go. He observed them adjust Anya’s ecbolic drip and massage her stomach. Although he stood guard by her bedside, he looked the other way when one doctor gave his wife a painful internal examine—the doctor had had to make sure that Anya had not retained any pieces of placenta.

On the third day of that tumult, Anya woke up screaming. The doctor attending her smiled; the drugs and manipulations were working. Her consciousness of pain, too, was a sign that she wouldn’t die but would have further uterine contractions. Soon, she’d need no additional transfusions. For just a few more days, Anya stayed on the critical care floor.

One night, while her internal throbbing made her writhe, and all of her family, except for Nachman, had left the hospital to walk in a nearby park, he cooed at her. “I love you, Dr. Rosenberg. I was so afraid I’d lose you.”

Anya smiled at him while clutching her stomach. “Pain rots.” She inhaled and exhaled in rhythem with her squeezing muscles as she had learned to do in her prenatal classes. Yet, neither drugs nor four square breathing took away all of her misery.

When she stopped panting, Nachman offered, “we oughtn’t to keep things from each other.”

“No. How is our daughter?”

“They let me do kangaroo care. She’s tiny, but a fighter.”

“I’d like that skin-to-skin contact…and to feed her directly. Pumping and dumping, also, rots.”

“Soon. Rest. Recover.”

“Love of My Life, what did you mean by ‘we oughtn’t to have secrets?’”

Nachman leaned away from his wife. It was unlikely that she could have learned about his monetary indiscretions while hospitalized and it was almost certain that she had known nothing about them prior. Plus, she was, currently, in great pain. Clearing his guilt was paramount, but the critical care unit was not the right place.

He sighed. Maybe, one of her smart graduate students had discovered something about Nachman’s imprudence and had told her. After all, it had been one of those youths who had directed her to selling her digital art.

Taking everything into account, Anya hadn’t been in communication with anyone from the university since being admitted. Probably, her mother had notified her lab of her health emergency. Flowers for Anya and a stuffed bear for their baby that had been delivered from those graduate students. “You’re right, Anya, we oughtn’t to have them.”

Anya closed her eyes. It was not a physical contraction that was squeezing her. She needed to get well and she needed their daughter to get well. She also needed to tell Nachman about Oxford.

Probably, they’d never go. Their child might be suffering horrific complications from having been born so prematurely. She looked with love at her husband. They needed to reify their connection. They needed to support each other if they were to build safety for their daughter.

She sighed as she considered the wisdom of her beliefs. When she opened her eyes, for reasons beyond Anya’s ken, she noted that Nachman was shaking.

Suddenly, he spit out curious words, “I’ve spent thousands of our dollars buying Binance coins.”

Without pausing to weigh her remarks, Anya, too, disgorged previously hidden information, “I’ve been invited to guest lecturer at Oxford, beginning in September.”

“What?”

“What?”

I didn’t want to remain dependent on my parents’ largesse.”

“I didn’t want to wait for my Prince Charming. I decided to enhance my life as best as I could.”

In the newfound quiet, the machines monitoring Anya’s vitals and the orders being dispatched by the floor’s chief nurse could be heard.

Nachman spoke first, “congratulations.”

His life partner answered, “commiserations.”

Not too long after that conversation, Anya was stepped down to a more typical surgical floor.

There, Nachman again raised the topic, “you have no idea what I’ve been experiencing. I wish I’d told you earlier. Although I’ve lost no money, as of last week, someone’s been trying to blackmail me—Binance’s securities aren’t registered with the Commodity Futures Trading Commission.”

“Well, I, ah, skipped a few steps when selling my art . Nothing happened.”

“Apples and oranges. Unregistered transactions can cost five years in prison. They’re considered a felony.”

“Any route to reparations? How many diapers per day is our baby filling? I’m so glad I can finally pump milk for her.”

“I’ll ask next time I’m at the NICU. Would you mind if I go when we’re done talking? Emanuel Weinberg gave me an hour of his counsel, gratis, as a favor to your parents. Per client confidentiality, he promised to tell neither them nor you.”

“And?”

“He suggested that I appeal on the basis of SEC Rule 144. A judge might see my case as an exception since I had no evil intent. I would have to admit my crime, first, though.”

“But you, I mean, we, are the ones to suffer, not the government nor the securities seller. Guilt for inadequate information about proffered securities falls on the persons involved in the transaction.” Anya paused as a new contraction colored her faced and tightened her belly. She gripped her bed’s rails.

“Maybe, now’s not a great time to talk about this.”

“Now is a good time. Before would have been even better.”

“And about Oxford?”

“Yes, Oxford. Do you mind regular precipitation? Ever own Wellies?”

“Changing the subject?”

Anya breathed through another wave of pain. “Yes and no.”

“Anyway, usually, these deals don’t become court cases. We need a judge because someone’s trying to extort money from us. I can’t agree for the obvious reasons as well as because I don’t want the crook to target my parents.”

Anya frowned. “Who are they?”

“No idea Likely, someone using the Dark Web.”

“Okay, one thing at a time.” First, find a doctor who will let me be wheeled to the NICU. Second, either way, wheel me there. Third, let’s locate the neonatologist in charge of our baby’s care.

“These other messes will have to wait. Once our little one and I are stronger, you and I will, again, be a fierce team. The predators will be sorry they ever troubled you.”

“And the deans at Oxford?”

“Did nothing illegal. Their only act of intimidation was their intellectual giftedness. It would be swell to work with them for a year.”

Eventually, Anya was released from formal care. Instead of leaving the hospital, however, she took up residence in the NICU. There, she continued to pump and to engage in kangaroo care. Her family and Nachman’s returned to their homes.

In due course, Anya was also able to directly fed her daughter. The ward’s lactation consultant was a great help. Still, her and Nachman’s baby continued her hospital stay.

Shortly before Shlomite was released, Anya sent her regrets to Oxford. Notwithstanding that the offer had been more than gracious, turning it down, even given her colleagues’ protests, had been fairly simple.

Dealing with the entities behind the ransomware, conversely, proved less straightforward. There were few precedents for prosecuting cybercrime. The judge and the lawyer both scolded Nachman for having engaged the hackers at all. Given his communications with them, his legal options were limited.

Anya’s students suggested that Nachman wipe his hard disc and reinstall his operating system. They had been making frequent visits to the Silverberg house while Anya was on leave. As usual, they were undeterred from voicing their perspective on Anya and Nachman’s personal goings-on.

“Can’t I just watch his stream?”

“Taping your camera’s feed will do nothing to prevent your microphone from being listened to. It would be better if you…”

“Anya? Where did you go?”

“Feeding Shlomite. There are sandwich makings in the fridge. Make dinner. There are some of my “famous,” round chocolate chip cookies in the freezer, too”

Nachman beckoned the students into the kitchen, passed around bread, mayonnaise, mustard, cheese, and vegetable slices. It felt ironic that his parents dealt with millions of dollars of inventory and that his wife sold art for five digits, but he was thwarted by a request for a few tens of thousands.

By the time that the night was over and there were no more baked goods to thaw, Nachman had had his disc wiped and his operating system reinstalled. As well, “he” had posted on social media, letting all his contacts know that he had been hacked.

The couple’s once preemie baby grew faster and faster. Shlomite became fat. She manifested jiggly arms and plump legs. She rolled over in two directions and began to commando crawl.

Anya returned to the university. A patchwork of grandparents and sitters provided baby care.

Whereas Anya’ father never regained the full use of his hands, he delighted having Anya’s mother perch the family’s little lovely on his lap. No amount of projectile vomit or leaky diapers deterred him.

Nachman never heard from the black hats again. He also never again involved himself in financial dealings without first consulting his wife. She had backed him despite potential ramifications to her impending promotion. Additionally, she had given up a professional dream in order to stay present for their family. As well, Anya continued to make delicious cookies.

During the next few years, Anya sold the rights to three other digital paintings. Because her agent had wanted to take an around-the-world cruise, he had pushed her to offer more works.

Despite all, Nachman urged Anya to consider keeping their apartment. Its three bedrooms were enough for them to comfortably nurture Shlomit and a future sibling. Furthermore, the commute from their current location represented a wonderful compromise for them. Above and beyond, their building’s doorman was expert at intercepting delivery people. So, rather than trade up for a freestanding home, they continued to pay down their mortgage.

As per Mom and Dad, in the end, they hadn’t needed Nachman and Anya’s help; their medical insurance, which had finally kicked in, when used alongside of government subsidies, had paid for a full-time aide. Fortunately, that assistant, who, too, took delight in Shlomit, insisted that some of his scheduled hours coincide with Dad’s visits to her.

As per Anya’s parents’ financial stability, Shmuel Samuels might have made bad investments, but Miriam Samuel had made wise ones. Whereas she had wanted to bequest those earnings to Anya and her siblings, her adult children, all professionals, had insisted that their parents enjoy those profits so as to maintain their accustomed lifestyle.

Those young adults had laughed upon overhearing Shmuel and Miria bicker over the impropriety of keeping secrets in a marriage. Nachman and Anya, though, expressed no hilarity.