Jerusalem Maiden (24 page)

He turned off the light and dropped his head on his pillow, facing the wall. She handed him a handkerchief. A tremor passed in the fronds of the palm tree outside the window.

When Esther wiped herself, she noticed that he hadn't spilled his seed.

T
wo weeks later, Nathan rummaged through the trunk at the foot of the bed for the wool coat he rarely wore in Jaffa. A whiff of the naphthalene mothballs escaped.

Esther took the clothes he handed her and spread them on the windowsill to air. How she longed to join him, to see Europe. If it weren't for the children. . . . At least she would have her miniature letters. She'd even buy herself colored pencils. Esther almost chuckled at how easy it would be this time. Nathan was right: the British put comfort within anyone's reach.

She'd lost the opportunity to broach the subject of Hanna's misfortune, and the right timing for such a big favor hadn't returned. “Nathan,” she began. She would ask to invite Hanna only for a visit. Esther halted. She was being manipulative and deceitful.

“Hashem willing, in a year or two you'll come with me.” Nathan closed the trunk. “We'll shop for furniture for the new house.” On this trip, he would order the building materials in Marseille. He had considered red tiles for a pitched roof, but Esther insisted they needed the flat roof for a laundry room, storage, and even to sleep on on hot nights, as the Arabs did.

In a year or two she wouldn't be able to travel either, because there might be a fourth baby. And Nathan knew it, hoped for it. “
Go in peace and come back safely,
” she said. She drew in a deep breath. She'd find the right moment. Hanna's situation was dire, but not urgent. Esther turned away. “I'll make you a cup of coffee.”

In the kitchen, she cut thick slices of cake onto two plates, then whipped fresh cream in a bowl and folded sugar into the foam. She used to like these quiet evenings during her
nidah
days, when she and Nathan were only permitted to talk. Now, discussing his plans for the new house burst a dam that held back a quarrel about his sisters. And since her shameful behavior on the night following her discovery of the vivacity of pastels, a new wariness had settled on Nathan, as though he were assessing her, watching for the wild beast that might get unleashed. The awkwardness had the presence of a third person loitering in the room.

Nathan recited the prayer for the food. She poured thick-ground Turkish coffee and, as he had taught her, left the spoon in the glass to absorb the heat so the crystal wouldn't crack. To avoid an accidental touch, she didn't hand him the glass but set it on the table.

An automobile passed in the street. Drunken soldiers sang loudly out of tune. Frogs croaked in the yard. Silently, Esther bit into the cake. Again, she had used too many eggs, until it had no fluff. She wanted to promise Nathan that she would never again embarrass both of them during their
yi'chud
, but those were subjects only alluded to in the darkness of their bedroom. Last Friday night, when it was decreed that he perform the mitzvah, he had praised her gefilte fish at the dinner table—he could taste the prayer that had gone into its preparation, he had said—and later in bed had recited the decreed words of endearment, given her the decreed kiss and executed his deed in a hurry. All the while, she had kept still to reassure both of them.

But in her sleep, her body kept assaulting her with its quivering storms. One night, the British officer emerged from the sea, naked but for his hat and visor shielding his eyes, and
Yishmor Hashem
, she found him uncircumcised. Suddenly he was Pierre. “You're an artist,” he said in the officer's voice, repeating in French, “
Une artiste.
” She had awoken, perspiring, a pillow clutched between her thighs, the shuddering of sweet sensations still vibrating in her flesh.

To her consternation, Nathan had leaned on his elbow, watching her in the moonlight flooding the room. “The Bible is very explicit about forbidding a man to spill his seed on the ground,” he said quietly, and she buried her face in the blanket. “Even God, with all His wisdom, didn't anticipate that a woman could be guilty of a similar sin.”

Weeping silently, Esther hadn't replied. She was insane. The urges she had permitted to enter as guests had become her new landlords. Nathan was right. The Bible decreed that such a man should be stoned to death. Had Hashem foreseen that a woman would thus sin, He would have surely ordered her executed, too.

In the morning, Nathan hadn't mentioned it. What could he say, that she must see a doctor or a rabbi? She had prayed for relief from the curses that plagued her body.

Now Nathan retired to bed, and Esther took out her sewing box and a yard of an old sheet. She cut and sewed pouches for the Shabbat
cholent
. On top of the buffet stood a new photograph of the family taken for Nathan's leaving. Through the protective glass, the grave, unsmiling little faces stared at her, accusing. Nathan was such a good man. He deserved a decent wife, not a wild one who indulged her urges. She wasn't a Woman of Valor; she was failing them all, even Hanna. Esther wished she could offer her sister that one act of benevolence. It might erase her sin of the flesh, except that Hanna would see right through her, would spot immediately the wanton woman Esther had always been, once again bringing shame upon her family. Poor Hanna's only rescuer was a sister needing rescuing herself.

From the floor below came a child's cry, followed by a muffled shushing and then Abigail's voice singing a lullaby. Nathan's only living brother had studied in Pittsburgh, then married and stayed there. Another brother had been murdered by an Arab in Jaffa before his bar-mitzvah. How would these brothers' wives have been accepted by the flock of sisters-in-law?

Esther filled each of the
cholent
pouches with a different kind of bean, then sewed their tops. She was afraid to go to bed, where her pillow would find its way between her legs, where she would squeeze it until that sweet burst would bring her sleep. Even then, the urge of coitus, still unquenched, would haunt her dreams.

The needle pricked Esther's finger. “Ouch.” Sucking on it, she wanted to cry. “What do You want from me?” she asked God. “Is this how You've created me ‘
according to Your will
'?”

A cough from the children's bedroom distracted her from her torturous thoughts. For months now, Gershon coughed at night, though he seemed well during the day. She found him sitting in bed under the mosquito net, his tattered pillow pressed against his cheek, his sheets wadded around him. She hugged him, then went to the kitchen to heat water for a steam treatment.

She gathered his limbs as, terrified, Gershon cried. “The doctor said your cough might develop into pneumonia,” she whispered, holding his head over the steam as he clawed to get away. His lungs weakened, he might die, as her little brother had. She held his sidelocks away from the boiling water and kissed the back of his head, dodging his kicks. “Shhhhhh. Breathe in. It's good for you. Shhhhhh. Don't wake everyone up—”

Finally, she carried him back to the bedroom. “My pillow,” he cried, and buried his face in it. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, checking his temperature at the same time. She gently pressed back his ears in the hope that one day they'd obey her.

When Gershon's whimpering subsided, she covered baby Eliyahu in his crib and pulled his thumb out of his mouth. Dvora's leg was thrown out of the mosquito net, her hand tucked under her chin, her dark hair, too straight to stay in a braid, spread on the pillow. Esther lifted her daughter's leg back up and covered it. She bent to kiss the sleeping head, hoping that her affection registered in Dvora's dreams.

Esther stepped out to her terrace and leaned out. The distant sea had a tar sheen under the full moon. The sounds from the other apartments and from the nearby houses faded. Back in the parlor, Esther tore several blank pages from Dvora's notebook, took her daughter's colored pencils, and sat down to draw her miniature Hebrew letters. She gathered a cloth under the flower vase as Mlle Thibaux had used to do years ago, and set a painted plate and utensils next to it for a still-life composition.

The clock rang one o'clock when she raised her head, astonished at how fast the hours had passed, and more at the tranquility the meticulous work brought her.

T
he stagecoaches let the family off at the entrance to the port. Esther wore her white linen dress and the pearl necklace Nathan had given her, though she had left off the matching earrings. She didn't cover her head only to attract men's attention to her earlobes, she had told Nathan when he presented her with the gift upon Dvora's birth, before he despaired of coaxing her to adopt his elegant style. The children were dressed in their Shabbat clothes, as were their cousins. Talking among themselves, the brothers-in-law walked behind the porters that carried Nathan's trunk.

The heat was oppressive. The sidewalk's cement blocks had long cracked into the soft sand, and the gaps made pushing Eliyahu's pram difficult.

Ahead, holding Nathan's hand, Dvora walked so close to him that her legs tangled in his. He bent to brush the blotches of dust off the cream-colored pants of his summer suit. The brave face Dvora had put on in the days of preparation had crumbled that morning, and she hadn't stopped weeping.

Nathan halted, placed his folio case down, and crouched in front of her. “I'll be back by Rosh Hashanah,” he said. “And I'll bring you many presents.”

His words made no impression. Hiccupping, Dvora tightened her arms around his neck and clung to him as he stood up. He resumed walking, carrying her.

Freed from his yeshiva for the morning, Gershon played with his cousins as they purposely bumped into passersby or ran into the dirt road to dare the mules drawing carts or camels laden with cargo. Esther grabbed his hand and held it tight on the pram handle while he squirmed to get away. “Stay with me,” she ordered.

“Let him run around,” Nathan said over his shoulder.

This wasn't the time to argue. Esther released Gershon, gave him a warning, and watched him sprint to his cousins.

“Boys.” Walking next to Esther, also pushing a pram, Abigail motioned with her head toward Dvora. “You'll have a tough time handling
her
, with school out all summer.”

Esther sighed. “At least she reads a lot.”

“It's not good for her eyes to read so much.”

“You try coaxing her to play in the yard with the others.”

“Send her to Jerusalem to your family. It's not this hot there,” Abigail said. “Maybe you, too, should go.”

Esther stared ahead. Everyone assumed that she missed her relatives in Jerusalem. What she missed were the early years, when Aba had loved her, and there had been laughter and games under Ima's grudging approval. Now the pain of expulsion lodged alongside every fond memory. With a similar absence of compassion, Hanna was now being pushed out.

At the dock, porters wheeled large boxes and donkeys brayed, almost collapsing under their loads. Barges lugged freight to the steamship. Heat sizzled on the galvanized tin warehouses and melted the black asphalt. The stench of rotting fish and bubbling tar filled the air. Gaytle's husband bought date drinks for everyone, but the sugar made Esther thirstier.

The children didn't seem to notice the heat. They screamed with delight as crates were lifted high in the air by ropes and pulleys and porters shouted instructions. Esther removed Eliyahu's clothes. In spite of the humidity, his urine-soaked diaper had dried on him under his pram's parasol.

The men formed a circle and recited
Birkat Haderech
, the prayer for safe voyage. A couple of meters behind them, Esther did the same. Then they all exchanged blessings, and kissed and waved, and kissed again and doused more blessings on Nathan's head while his sisters wiped tears until the ship's horn sliced the air.

Dvora refused to let go of her father's hand. He touched her head. “Be good to your Ima. Remember the Commandment,
Thou shall honor your mother and your father.
If you are disrespectful to your Ima, it is as if you are disrespectful to me, but more so, disrespectful to Hashem.”

Dvora shrugged, her chin lowered, her weeping unabated.

“We'll read books together,” Esther said from behind her. She closed her parasol and rested her arm on Dvora's chest, drawing her close. “And Dvora's old enough to learn to bake a cake by herself. She'll bake you a honey cake upon your return.”

Dvora raised her red nose and puffy eyes. “A date cake,” she said. “With almonds.”

“Sure.” Esther stroked her hair, enjoying her daughter's transient compliance. “Aba loves date cake.”

“Aba, when you come back, can I marry you?”

He laughed and crouched in front of her again. “I am married already. To your lovely mother. And when you grow up, Hashem willing, you will find your own good young man—”

“I want to marry you.”

“You're too young to think of such things,” Esther said. If only Dvora understood how lucky she was to be raised by a mother who'd fight for her to marry late.

The ship's horn tooted again. Abigail dragged Dvora away, and Nathan turned to Esther. His eyes caressed her face. She could read his regret at avoiding the marital coitus—she had been permitted to him this past week—and for the long parting. “My Queen Esther,” he said softly. He wouldn't hug her in public. “I have a wonderful surprise for you. Your sister Hanna will be arriving in a couple of days.”

Anticipation, guilt and dread flared in her. “Really?”

“Did you for a minute think that I would refuse a request for help from your family?” Nathan tilted his hat to let the air dry his perspiration. “Haven't I proven to you that I would do for them as much as I would for mine?”

The bright sun pierced Esther's eyes. She shielded her brow. Hanna's letter had been locked in her side of the armoire. “How has it come about?” she asked cautiously, hoping that Hanna's letter hadn't been offensive to him.

“Hanna wrote me at the store asking to continue the stipend in spite of the divorce. Hashem be with her, she's in a very difficult situation. Instead of money, I sent her a telegram inviting her to come.” His tone soft, he added, “It will be good for you to have your sister nearby while I'm gone.”

Esther smiled. The decision had been taken out of her hands. She had known all along that God would take care of it for her. When bringing her sister to her, He would also see to it that Hanna would be gentle-hearted and humble. Esther wished she could hug Nathan with her delight. Half turned away from her family's eyes, she touched his arm. “Thank you. Thank you for your generosity.”

“She'll sleep in our room until my return,” Nathan said. “And next year, God willing, she'll have her own bed in our new house in Tel Aviv.” His fingers brushed Esther's, then clutching his folio case, he stepped onto the dinghy that would transport him to the awaiting ship. He sat down and waved, but the rushing porters blocked him from view.

“Thank you, Nathan,” Esther mouthed. “Thank You, Hashem.” She would instruct Hanna to refrain from mentioning that Nathan forever owed her for the past honor of her marriage to a scholar.

Despondent, as if returning from a funeral, the family bounced the short distance in the stagecoaches, breathing dust that swirled under a merciless sun. The summer stretched ahead of Esther long and hot, but Hanna would be here to keep her company. And in time, God would present her with His greater purpose in sending her sister here. If any friction occurred in the coming days, Esther would remember to indulge poor Hanna and win her over through empathy and kindness.

E
sther woke up at four o'clock. In the children's room, Eliyahu chattered in his crib. Dvora was probably reading in the parlor. Gershon was still in his yeshiva, safe for one more hour. In the laundry shed on the roof, the two washwomen sang in Arabic.

Excitement rippled in her, along with a sense of mission about her largest
tzedakah
project ever. Hanna's train would arrive before sunset. Aba must have pooled his resources to pay for the expensive one-way ticket that would rid him of one more daughter failing to bring him honor. Only once, following her nuptials, had Esther taken that day-long bone-bruising journey. Even as soot felted her face and clothes, she had exclaimed at the chalky rocks peeking through carpets of flowers, and later, at the view of her new sun-washed world.

The British had since replaced the trains, and the new cars had upholstered seats, Aba had reported the one time he visited Jaffa on business, when he had treated Esther as some customer's wife, rather than the daughter he had once cherished—then sold. Esther shoved the memories away. On the nightstand rested a bowl with a ripe tangerine, a soft persimmon and green grapes. She peeled the tangerine and said her prayer. With each bite, she lingered on the spurt of sweetness on her tongue. Hopefully, Hanna's austerity wouldn't hold her back from similarly enjoying this heavenly pleasure.

Esther mixed poppy-seed dough, and while the cake baked in the oven, she whipped up butter, sugar and egg whites for a thick frosting. Then she rinsed a cabbage and boiled its leaves until they were supple enough to roll around the stuffing of rice, chopped meat and raisins. The food preparations complete, she dusted the parlor and rolled up the Persian rug to sweep water across the floor, cooling the apartment so Hanna could rest after the long travel.

“God knows I could use another friend,” she told Abigail a while later, staring at the empty tracks that stretched away. She held tight to Gershon's hand lest he run onto the rails. Finally, the nine children screamed with excitement at the sight of the approaching train and its swirling cloud of smoke that soon made the platform and people disappear. When the smoke cleared, a tired, gaunt woman with a flowered kerchief tied over her white
tichel
stood in front of Esther. The haunted look in her eyes was the one Esther had glimpsed in Jewish families returning to Jaffa after their wartime exile to Egypt. Hanna's weak smile resembled Ima's in the months of her illness. Esther's heart contracted. Jaffa was her sister's last stop. Literally.

“You said you looked alike,” Abigail whispered. “I can't even tell you're sisters.”

Once, she and Hanna had been very pretty. Or, as Nathan had told her, Esther had been so beautiful that he had known the moment he laid eyes on her that she would be his wife. Since then, grief and conceit had embittered Hanna's liver and tainted her skin green. Her bony shoulders, from which hung a long gray dress, looked like a clothes hanger.

Hanna fell into Esther's arms, sobbing. “Thank you for saving me,” she mumbled.

“Welcome to my home,” Esther said, hugging the thin figure she no longer recognized.

“Hashem will pay you in the next world for your generosity.”

Dvora rushed over and threw her arms around her aunt's hips. “You'll sleep in my bed!” she called out. “Like I slept in yours!”

“In our house, thank Hashem, we have a bed for each person,” Esther told Dvora. To Hanna she said, “Come. Let's fatten you up.”

A
t night, Gershon had his usual cough.

“It will disappear in the morning,” Esther explained to Hanna as she went through the routine of forcing him to inhale steam. “Hanna, will you drip some eucalyptus oil into the water?”

“Euca—what?” Hanna pulled out the cork to sniff the contents.

“Eucalyptus leaves.” Esther signaled to pour it in. “The newcomer Zionists have imported this tree from Australia. They've planted thousands of them up in the Sharon Valley to dry up swamps. It grows very tall. Hashem knows this country can use the shade.”

“How do you know it won't poison him?” Hanna inspected the vial as if it should carry a skull-and-bones warning.

Esther released Gershon's flailing limbs to grab the bottle out of Hanna's hands. She dripped a few beads of oil onto the water, and the pleasant minty aroma filled the room. She caught Gershon again and held him tight over the bowl as he cried. “The steam will help you,” she whispered to him, hoping that for once he wouldn't make her look like a harsh mother. But his little body writhed in protest.

“He doesn't like it,” Hanna commented.

“Doctor's orders.” Esther felt herself losing her patience. She bit her lip.

When she tucked Gershon in bed, Dvora sat up. “My tummy aches,” she whined.

This child had never used baby talk. “Is your stomach hurting?” Esther asked pointedly.

Hanna was already crouching at Dvora's side, cradling her. “You're probably hungry.”

“Hungry?!” Esther exclaimed. “It's eleven o'clock. And anyway, she's had dinner—”

But Dvora had already scrambled out of bed and was holding Hanna's hand as the two of them started toward the kitchen. Esther remained standing in the room, her hands clutching the railing of Eliyahu's crib while Dvora's chirping carried through the house.

A knock on the front door made Esther unfreeze her position. Surprised, she went to answer it.

It was Gaytle. “Is everything all right? I heard a commotion—” Her words pinched off as she caught sight of Dvora at the kitchen table. “Why is Dvora eating now?”

“She's hungry.”

“It's a bad habit. She'll get sick, because her stomach doesn't function this late.”

“How are you doing?” Esther pointed to Gaytle's pregnant belly, her ninth child. Just then, Hanna, whose chair had not been visible from the foyer, came to the door. “Have you met my sister yet?” Esther asked. No doubt, Gaytle had spotted them entering the building.

“All the way from Jerusalem? Welcome. How long will you be staying with us?”

Hanna's dark pupils darted between the women like twin frightened mice. “Hashem willing, I won't be any trouble.”

“Back to bed,” Esther announced. “Dvora, go polish your teeth again. Yes, with baking soda,” she added, catching the grimace on her daughter's face. “That's what happens when you eat in the middle of the night. Gaytle, I'm sorry if we've made too much noise. We'll all be going to sleep now, and I hope you, too, will get some well-deserved rest.”