Jerusalem Maiden (19 page)

Esther abandoned her washboard. Flailing her arms, smacking her hands at the shower of creatures, she ran in the cloud of buzzing, fluttering and hissing locusts. There was Hospice Saint Vincent de Paul, barely visible for the red cloud. Sprinting in the opposite direction, screaming, Esther lost sight of the street. Swarms of insects swirled in the air, encrusted her arms, and invaded her hair. Crying, her shoes crunching thousands of insects underfoot, she heard the crackling of chitin shells and felt the creatures munching on her stockings as she turned into an alley. There was no respite; the locusts continued to drop from the sky like rain, flooding every surface. Her arms batting at her body, her lungs heaving in need of oxygen, Esther reached the courtyard of the French embassy, a building she had passed many times these past two months but dared not enter. In the front yard, servants shouted as they set fire to the low shrubs lining the fence so the smoke chased away the invaders. The cypress trees abutting the shrubs ignited with a series of crackles. Esther jumped through the hot, billowing smoke, ran to the large wooden door, and grabbed the handle.

In the din of millions of flapping wings, she burst into the high-ceilinged foyer.

“Mlle Thibaux, is she here? Mlle Thibaux,
S'il vous plaît
—”

S
he had never imagined that she'd present herself to her former teacher like this, perspiration soaking her shredded clothes and dead insects stuck to the dust on her stockings.

“
Ma chérie.
” Mlle Thibaux's warm voice showed no surprise, as if Esther's arrival in this gilded foyer was an ordinary event. “I'm so glad you've made it in.” She hugged Esther.

The last time they had met, Esther had been a head shorter. Now they were the same height. In the window behind Mlle Thibaux, locusts pelted the glass. Still encircled by her teacher's arms, Esther buried her face in her hands.

“
Mon
petit chou.
Would you like to freshen up?” Mlle Thibaux waited until a maid picked at the last of the locusts caught in Esther's clothes and led her to a parlor, where the velvet curtains pulled over the windows muted the noise of the assault. She poured coffee from an urn on a teacart and added four teaspoons of sugar. “We keep kosher dishes in a separate cabinet,” she said, and Esther wondered which Jewish dignitaries visited the embassy; Aba's appeals to the French ambassador for sponsorship had borne no fruit. Of the half dozen sectors of Jews competing for protection from the callous ruling Turks, the ones least likely to receive it were the Haredi, whose critical contribution to the hastening of the Messiah was beyond the
goyim
's comprehension.

The aroma of Turkish coffee wafted from the glass. Esther took a sip. The flavor was as earthy as if God were feeding her His holy soil. Warmth spread through her.

She batted the part in her hair. “I apologize for the way I look—”

“Bring the coffee with you,
ma chérie
.” Mlle Thibaux led her toward a door.

At the sight of the bathroom, Esther let out a yelp of astonishment. The enamel pedestal sink, the toilet bowl and the shiny claw-foot tub gleamed a pristine white. On a gilded table covered by lace lay a display of crystal vials, ivory-handled brushes and folded crisp white towels.

She had thought she would wash her hands and face in a bowl and use a damp rag for her feet. Instead, a tall Sudanese in a bleached tunic, his skin so black it shone blue, rolled in a cauldron of steaming water. He tilted it into the tub, while Mlle Thibaux turned on a faucet.

“The water is flowing from the pipes!” Esther said with surprise. She shifted the curtain to peek out the window. A giant Archimedean screw ratcheted up water from the well to the roof. In the smoke swelling over the burning shrubs, the locusts had thinned.

“Gravitation draws the water from the roof tank,” Mlle Thibaux explained, and uncorked a jar. She poured its contents into the water, and meringue-like soapsuds foamed on the surface. Lavender scent filled the room. “Get undressed. When you're in the tub, I'll return.” Her tone was so gentle, Esther wanted to cry.

She shucked off her clothes and covered herself with a towel lest she glimpse her body in the first full-length looking glass she'd seen. Slowly, in awe of the luxurious sensations, she lowered herself into the embrace of the soap bubbles. The dove-like wings of her towel floated just below them. She tucked the edges under her to keep herself covered and leaned back. She was so tired.

She ducked her head, and the world disappeared into silence. If this indulgence in luxury was forbidden, if she should be outside fighting the locusts, she was too exhausted to care.

Mlle Thibaux returned and pulled a stool to the head of the tub. Her fingers untangled Esther's braid and spread the dark locks around. From the corner of Esther's eye, the hair floating about her head formed a halo of black taffeta.

No gentler fingers had ever touched her. Mlle Thibaux lathered soap in her palms and onto Esther's scalp. Esther surrendered to the fragrance of roses and the delicate massage. Ima had attacked her hair with hands accustomed to scouring with Nablus soap.

The only sounds in the room were Mlle Thibaux's soft breathing, the effervescence of miniature bubbles popping, and the water swooshing around Esther's toes. Neither spoke while Mlle Thibaux rinsed out the soap and then doused Esther's hair with herb-scented oil. When she combed it through, the knots gave in without resistance. Ima had always had to yank at the tangled hair, making Esther cry in pain. She and Hanna still did that when braiding each other's hair every morning.

Reaching her hand up from under the water, Esther extended it backward. Her arm was covered with white foam as she laid her palm in Mlle Thibaux's. “Thank you. For everything,” she mumbled.

T
he two of them had been talking for a long time. Esther ate an apple, then a pear, and now finished a cluster of red grapes, all imported from Lebanon, Mlle Thibaux told her. Outside, the locusts disappeared as suddenly as they had come, and insouciant stars twinkled gaily overhead, oblivious to the disaster below.

Esther scanned the vast room with its gilded furniture, a grand piano, Persian rugs, ornate mirrors and crystal-dripping oil lamps. Framed paintings in the Impressionists' pastels graced the walls. This world was just minutes away from her home, but it might as well have been on the other side of the globe.

Her eyes searched for the miniature sculptures she remembered as Pierre's work, but saw only a large bronze hawk in flight. Would Pierre walk in? She wished both that he would and wouldn't.

She twisted the damp end of her braid. “Do you remember the boy who played the flute by the monastery?” she asked Mlle Thibaux.

“Your talented cousin?”

Esther nodded. “He offered to marry me to save me from being given to a stranger.” She hesitated. “He wants us to live in Europe.”

“And?”

Esther shook her head. “Modern Orthodox Jews like Nathan don't observe each of Hashem's decrees with the zeal of the Haredi,” she explained. “And my pathetic cousin is on his way to lapse the same way.”

Mlle Thibaux sat erect, her head tilted, listening.

“Nathan has been generous with my family. And my father is so distraught, I cause him more pain by my refusal,” Esther said. “I'd like to do good deeds, and to keep my mind pure from temptations. Not to run away from here.”

Mlle Thibaux lit a cigarette. “Is there a place you could live for a few years until you're old enough to get married?”

Esther bit a hangnail. “I want to become a seamstress, but it will make me a pariah. Only married women and widows work for pay.”

Mlle Thibaux's eyelids lowered as she inhaled the smoke before letting it out in a round puff. “Girls in other countries aren't part of God's master plan for humanity, yet they also have few choices. Many labor in inhuman conditions at factory jobs that cause them to die young.”

Could girls in faraway places be as miserable as Ruthi had been? Esther's gaze, fixed unseeing on the far wall, caught a glance of a familiar picture above the writing desk in an angled nook she had missed. She rose and stepped to it. It was her own painting of Mlle Thibaux, the radiant artist on a Jerusalem mountaintop. Along with the bubble of pride came the pang of regret; perhaps if she had sacrificed her oil paintings along with her notebook—

“Your street scene is hanging in my private chamber,” Mlle Thibaux said. “They're yours whenever you wish.”

Esther let out a thin smile. “Keep them. It's the little I can do to reciprocate for your kindness.”

Mlle Thibaux pressed her palms together in thanks. “They are presents I'll cherish forever.”

Esther sat down again and rotated her ankles. Mlle Thibaux's shoes—the brown ones she had remembered, with the white strap buttoned at the side—fit perfectly. She was wearing them with Mlle Thibaux's other gifts of chocolate-brown gabardine skirt and a starched white blouse with pleats running down its front. “I'll mend clothes for you to pay for these,” she said.

“
Merci.
No need. You've given me a lot more.” Mlle Thibaux's lips pursed to let out a short plume of smoke. “Have you heard about the women's suffrage in the United Kingdom and America?”

“The old women wanting to run the world like men?”

Mlle Thibaux laughed. “Many of them are young. And more than run the world, they want control over what happens to their
own
lives.” She paused. “I'm going to say this only once. Don't respond immediately. Think about it—now and in the months to come.” When Esther nodded, she continued, “It is very difficult to come up with a new way of thinking when you are forever exposed to your God's scrutiny—or what you believe is your God's scrutiny. He sits in judgment inside your head, reading every errant thought, making you obsessed with following what you've been told are His decrees. And so you are confined—”

“But the daily observances are comforting, not confining!” Esther interrupted. “It helps me to know that the smallest of actions might unleash potent consequences—”

“That's exactly what I mean. Do you remember when you believed that, single-handedly, you were delaying the Messiah's arrival?”

Esther blushed, recalling the days following the spice merchant's attack in the souk. Even today, for a brief childish moment, she had wondered whether the locusts were God's message to her. “I still feel important to Hashem.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “I am more hurt that He wills me to be less worthy than a man.”

“Does He really? Esther, examine with an open mind what and who confine you.”

“Our prayers and directives protect us,” Esther responded. “From moment to moment—”

“Esther, are you listening? Take a lesson from the suffragettes.”

Why was she rushing to defend the traditions that had brought Ruthi to prefer death over life? Her tone more subdued, Esther asked, “Should I march in protest against Hashem?”

“It's not just about God. You are independent and blessed with the soul of an artist. Artists often chart new paths for themselves—”

“I'm not an artist.” Even if God hadn't targeted the locusts as a warning to her, the proximity of the event to her fantasizing about Bezalel couldn't be denied. And she couldn't think of Bezalel without Pierre popping into her mind, especially here, where she could feel his presence nearby—one temptation leading to another.

“You may have forbidden yourself to hold a pencil or a brush,” Mlle Thibaux said, “but you can't change the way your eyes distinguish hues where everyone else sees merely bland colors. You can't change the fact that you watch the world from a perspective unavailable to others. You can't change the nature of the dreams that come to you at night.”

All of which God watched and registered, Esther thought. It was imprinted in His ledger forever, long after she had forgotten the pictures. Even now, He was eavesdropping on her conversation. She must make sure He knew that her faith remained unshaken.

Mlle Thibaux rose and went over to the piano. She lifted the lid, and her hands ran over the black and ivory keys. Esther looked at her erect back. Her teacher wasn't a “whore,” as the neighbor had called her. She carried herself with no shame, reticence, or apology. She was a woman unafraid. Not even of God. But her path had led her to be an unmarried woman with a
mamzer
child.

Mlle Thibaux played for a few minutes, then spoke over a soft tune. Her voice was sad. “Things are changing for women, but not fast enough.”

“You mean not fast enough for me not to get married on Tuesday?” Esther whispered. Mlle Thibaux stopped playing. Sighing, she lowered the piano lid. “Would you consider your cousin's proposal? He's the only one around you who understands the concept of freedom. He'll find it. He'll give you the reprieve of time to grow with him—”

“Asher? He's a joke of a man.”

“You can become a seamstress, if that's where your creativity leads you. I'll introduce you to some matrons.”

“That's wonderful! Thank you!” Esther wanted to hug Mlle Thibaux. She rose to her feet. It was late and dangerous outside. “I must go home.”

“I'll have a sentry accompany you.”

Esther almost replied, “I'll go alone.” She must take her time to ponder a match with Asher, as improbable as it had sounded before. Marrying Asher would make becoming a seamstress possible. “Thanks. The sentry would be good,” she said instead, wishing it were Pierre who accompanied her back home.

T
he tiny stone box houses in Asher's neighborhood seemed to have been dropped from the sky onto the rise of the hill, falling whichever way. The setting sun bathed the laundry hanging on lines in orange, and the tattered garments swayed like tongues of fire. How she missed sketching this sight, or better yet, painting it in all its colors. . . . It had taken her days to muster the courage to approach Asher. Still disbelieving her own audacity, Esther peeked through the iron bars on the basement apartment window. He stood on the other side, staring into space as if awaiting the Messiah. In response to the gesture of her finger, he turned to the door.

She waited next to a horse tied to a wall. The powerful muscles under its brown coat trembled as flies attacked it, mindless of the slapping tail. It did the horse no good to be strong; it only served the needs of others, just as she was designed to do. Could she change her destiny by heeding Mlle Thibaux's advice?

The horse raised its tail and dropped balls of manure just as Asher showed up.

“Let's talk in my former schoolyard,” she whispered and dashed away.

The vine skeletons around the bench facing the Evelina de Rothschild building had once bloomed and created an enclave where Mlle Thibaux used to sit, reading, her back erect in her starched blouse. Today, Asher cleared dead locusts before sitting down. His empty coat shoulders climbed up to his ears.

Esther sat at the far edge. “If we go to Europe, will I get to see Paris?”

“Why not?” He blinked. “We'll live in Montmartre.”

“Where's that?”

“On top of a hill, with a grand church overlooking the entire city. All the artists have ateliers around there.”

Where had he learned that? “Chagall and Modigliani, both Jewish artists, live in Montparnasse,” she said. Anyway, she would only visit for a while, not live in Paris forever.

He threw his hands in the air. “Whatever you choose.”

“I want to earn a living as a seamstress.”

He shrugged, as if this were a minor point.

A finch landed a few meters away, probably returning from its winter migration. It dug up a worm and pranced about, its prey squirming before disappearing inside the beak. Esther pointed at Asher's sidelocks. “In Europe, will you walk around with your
pe'os
?”

“Millions of Jews live there. Many are Haredi.”

“You don't ‘tremble before God,' nor act like one who does.”

His hands flew in front of his face in mock horror. “I may just become a modern Jew.”

“Does our piousness mean nothing to you? The hardest decrees are those that test your faith.
Break one and it's as if you had broken them all,
” she added the Talmud warning.

“Who said I'll be dropping decrees? I'll be dropping only the know-it-all rabbis who act as if Hashem speaks directly to them.”

“All they say is that you must adhere to Hashem's six hundred thirteen mitzvahs. They don't make them up.”

“First of all, most of these mitzvahs relate to the Temple, which is long gone, so we're left with only two hundred seventeen. Many of these are agrarian, dealing with cultivating the land, a practice that our
klal
abhors. Even without those, the rest of the mitzvahs are meant to regulate our way of life, to bring us order and security, right?”

She nodded.

“But what if they fail to do so? Whom shall I turn to for guidance? Our elders are cowards. If they weren't, they wouldn't be so afraid of the ‘others' and their ways of life.”

“You have a theory for everything,” she said. “Jewishness is not a coat you wear when it's cold and hang on a nail when it's hot.”

“Our religion is about the past and present. It doesn't allow for the future on this earth.” His hand cut the air to the west. “Soon, invisible sound tunnels will make it possible to speak across oceans, and ships will sail people to the moon. But the rabbis? They still debate how kosher is an egg laid on Shabbat.”

“They know that nothing important can happen until the Messiah arrives.”

“So far, we haven't even seen the tail of his donkey.” Asher shook his head. “Maybe I was right and you are defying God's real intentions. Maybe that's why He makes you unhappy.”

If only Asher's arguments weren't so rebellious. “You can't interpret Hashem's wishes any way you want,” she said wildly.

“Why not? Everyone else does. The last known time Hashem spoke directly to man was through the Burning Bush.” Asher's voice, still searching for its adult pitch, jumped from one scale to its squealing next. He broke a twig, then snapped off its smaller branches. “Take the Hassids. They celebrate His name through music, wine and dance. Our rabbis believe in eternal mourning for the destruction of the Temple. One sect of Jews laughs, the other cries. Who is correct in interpreting how God wishes to be exalted?”

“We are, of course. Our men are learned, not simpletons like the Hassids—”

Asher threw his head back and laughed. “Maybe Hashem has sent
me
along to teach you to think instead of regurgitate.”

“I don't regurgitate! I really believe in our ways of glorifying His name.”

“You don't have any doubts?”

“I have questions to Him, yes, but no doubts
in
Him.”

“Faith is hard.” Asher sighed. “It's easier for those who are afraid of the questions more than the answers.”

“You're speaking like a rabbi, and you're not even a scholar.”

“
If I am not for myself, then who is for me?
” he quoted from the book of Avot. “I think for myself, and so do you—or you should.”

She used to, when Aba had encouraged her questioning. Now that she had become a woman, it seemed he expected her to stop thinking. She stared down. In a crack between the foot of the bench and a stone, a dandelion's head peeked out. Once upon a time a hardy seed had flown by, taken refuge in a deposit of dust, suckled morning dew, and came to life. A few days ago, its golden head had managed to hide from the locusts. Now, it presented itself to her as a message of hope:
Fly away with the wind and cling to whatever comes your way. You can blossom wherever you land.

With the tip of her finger, Esther touched the tiny velvety yellow petals; she wouldn't pluck the flower and end its courageous life. She tried to imagine living in Paris, but Pierre's image flickered in her mind. No! she told herself. Surely, that wasn't God's intention.

She swallowed and shifted in her seat. “When cousins marry, their children are afflicted with curses.”

Asher cleared his throat and whispered, “I don't intend to father children.”

“What do you mean?” The notion of a choice in this matter had never occurred to her. She felt her eyes open wide. “Procreation was the first decree God gave Adam and Eve. In procreation, we draw our special place in His universe as we save the world's Jewry.”

He tossed the twig away. “If Jerusalemites are starving, tell me how they are supposed to save a whole nation?”

“Every time we speak, you denigrate everything sacred to me, to our families, to our people—and to Hashem.” But even as she sputtered the words, she was aware of the new opportunity. Without children, she wouldn't be tied down to a life of drudgery. If she married Nathan, she'd have to bear him many children. “What about our obligations to the
klal
?”

“I've told you I am different.” His eyes blinked. “I was serious when I said I would die if I don't escape those obligations.”

The sun had set, and a chill settled in the air. Esther curled into herself. Sitting on the same bench as Asher didn't feel like the forbidden act that it was. Her heart beat fast, and she recognized it as fear. Fear of the stranger Nathan and his foreign ways. Fear of being different. Asher was unafraid to proclaim his difference. Perhaps because he didn't care. She did.

“The thing is—uh,” Asher stuttered, “Uh, if we get married, we don't even have to bother with the expectation of—uh—with the mitzvah. We'll live like a brother and a sister—”

She blushed. The
yi'chud
appeared in the Song of Solomon:
I am my beloved's, and my beloved is for me.
The boy beside her couldn't be anyone's beloved. But maybe that's what would help her squeeze sweetness out of a bitter situation. Mlle Thibaux had suggested she keep an open mind. Asher would talk to her as no husband would. And even if she wouldn't actively hasten the Messiah's arrival, she wouldn't take part in delaying his arrival by being a helpmate to Nathan and his Zionist ideas.

And she would be saved from the painful
yi'chud
.

But she still tasted defeat. Nothing in this moment felt as if she were taking charge of her life the way the suffragettes did. She couldn't foresee the months and years to come, only next Tuesday. Or the Tuesday after. Everything else seemed unreal, as if it were happening to someone else. Her real self—a package of defiance and wants that totaled a girl with a
dybbuk
—still lurked in the darkness like locusts awaiting to descend again. Even if she married Nathan, once he discovered who she really was, he would send her away. She'd be back here, divorced.

“All right,” she whispered. “I'll marry you.”

A
s she hung her shawl in the kitchen, Esther caught sight of the entire family in the front room crowding the far end of the table. She stepped to the door. “Good evening everyone! I'm getting married. To Asher.”

Hanna turned and looked at her with surprise. “Asher? Ha!”

The circle untangled, and it took Esther a split second to grasp that they had been encircling a seated boy who was devouring a plate of okra. Aba's eyes on him were flooded with love.

“Naftali!” Esther screamed. “Naftali!” She broke into the group and tried putting her arms around her brother. But Naftali recoiled and looked at her with vacant eyes. The fork in his hand shook.

Avram and Moishe wrapped themselves in their prayer shawls and faced the wall to
doven
. “Let's dance,” Esther called out and grabbed Miriam's hand. Naftali was back. He was alive! Hanna, Shulamit and her daughters joined. “Hallelujah,” they chanted. “Hallelujah!”

Naftali didn't seem to notice as they snaked around the table in jaunty steps.

Panting, Shulamit held her stomach and stopped. She pulled Esther aside. “Your Nathan Bloomenthal, blessed be Hashem, has performed a miracle.”

A
unt Tova was furious to learn that Esther's trousseau had long been reassigned to Hanna, leaving the bride as empty-handed as the poorest of their relations. “
A shandeh un a charpeh,
” Tova muttered, her lips tightening. “A disgrace to my poor sister's memory, may her soul rest in peace.”

A few hours later, Aba brought home a large sack of goose down. In the kitchen yard, stuffing a handful into a cotton duvet casing, Esther watched a fine feather carried away by a passing wind. As the wind tired of it, the feather dropped into the gutter, where it was sucked in by murky water. Just like her.

She was surprised to see Aba standing beside her. “Esther appears in the story of Purim as a woman of deep faith, courage and patriotism, a woman willing to risk her life for her uncle, Mordecai, who was like a father to her, and for the Jewish people,” Aba said, as if continuing a
Dvar Torah
he had been elucidating.

Esther hardly listened to his words. It was Tuesday, an opportune day to get married, even if the home she and Asher would create was a sham. Now with the scorn on Aba's face gone, the day was turning doubly good. God must be looking down on her with favor.

She had asked herself whether Nathan's hand in returning Naftali had been God's message to marry the foreigner. But God wouldn't have sent Asher to propose, and then Mlle Thibaux to support his offer. God wouldn't want her to marry outside the
klal
. Anyway, she and Asher couldn't go to Europe as long as it was engulfed in war. In the meantime, being married, she would become a seamstress in God's city.

Aba went on, “That is why I named you Esther. I've always had great hopes for you and for your role in the salvation of our people.”

Esther batted away loose feathers that clung along her braid. Soon she would be parting with it. On Sunday, when Asher sneaked by their kitchen yard, she publicly disregarded
tzni'ut
and delivered her order: he must tell his mother that he forbade his bride's head to be shaved. Short hair should do, he had agreed. Whatever she wanted was fine.

Aba leaned over her worktable for support. His injured back did not permit him to straighten up fully. “Why was Esther, one virgin among many in the kingdom of Persia, chosen by King Ahasuerus? Where did she get the courage to approach the king, risking death, to invite him to a banquet in her quarters? Because she was an instrument in the hand of Hashem to avert the massacre of the Jewish people, to afford them protection and peace in their captivity. The lesson can be applied to a much smaller universe—”

The little sermon had nothing to do with her, Esther thought. Their
klal
was not living in captivity. The only captives were its girls, Jerusalem maidens like her. But she wasn't going to argue with Aba today. Naftali was back—albeit tongue-tied and almost soulless, as if his shell had returned, not the boy—and Aba was here with her. His silence these past four days about her impertinence in selecting her own groom, and one who was surely an embarrassment, had been surprising. She figured that as long as he had disposed of his obligation to marry off his oldest daughter, why bother denigrating Asher's poor, unlearned merchant father as Hanna did several times a day?