Sotah (13 page)
She tried to think of some other stories in the Bible where love had conquered all, but couldn’t come up with any. David and Bathsheba, but that was a sin. She’d been a married woman. Shocking, the whole thing. Good thing she hadn’t had to learn about it with Rebbetzin Morganbesser, who’d probably have edited the whole thing out. Come to think of it, the Bible according to Morganbesser would be very short. You’d have to take out Adam and Eve, Lot’s daughters seducing him in the cave, Dina getting raped by the Prince of Shechem, Judah mistaking his daughter-in-law Tamar for a harlot and “going in unto her.” It would be a very, very short story. Maybe not even one volume, let alone five. She suppressed a giggle and smoothed back her hair neatly into the approximation of a ponytail. It was hopeless, she knew, but she didn’t let it bother her.
The store was emptying out and she had no choice but to take her turn or look conspicuous.
“Next,” called Minskoff the elder. “What can I do for you, young lady?”
“Two big ones. Cleaned and ground, please.”
She watched him fish them out of the dark tub and gave them the obligatory poke of approval, touching the damp, satiny surface with repugnance. She winced as the dark, silver-yellow fish wiggled in his hands until receiving the firm blow that put them beyond their misery and one step closer to the Sabbath table.
She moved along the counter, her insides tingling as Moishe slapped the fish onto the counter. His hands and mine have now touched the same spot, she rejoiced inwardly, hardly able to stand straight. She kept her eyes down modestly, caressing his back in furtive little glances.
“Don’t throw out the livers!” she suddenly spoke up.
“Don’t worry,” came the reply.
“And don’t throw away the heads, either.”
“Don’t worry, I never do.”
She paused. “And make sure you cut out the big bones before you grind it. And save the skin. And …”
He put down his knife and turned around slowly, looking at her with his amused blue eyes. “Would you like to come back here, maybe, and show me how it’s done?”
“Why would I want to do that?” She tossed her head, making the Yemenites tinkle. She saw his eyes move slightly toward her ears, then back again to her face.
“Now I recognize you. You’re a regular customer, aren’t you?”
“So far,” she said with a great show of indifference.
“Well, at Minskoff’s you know how we treat regular customers.” He gave her a mock bow. “Now, what else, please give me the list!”
“Oh, you seem to know what you’re doing. The fish looks like it’s in competent hands.”
“Oh, very. Experienced and competent.” He held up his hands to show her.
She examined them, blushing. The flat, broad palm crisscrossed with fishy remains, the strong knuckles and quick, agile wrist. “Perfect,” she said with a bold smile. “That is, for this purpose.”
It was his turn to blush. He gave her an odd look, half appreciative and half-shocked. Then he turned around and finished the job quickly.
When she got home, she found an extra liver and an extra head in the bag.
DATE: 10 ADAR (FEBRUARY)
I have never written in a diary before. It feels silly in a way, as if I’m talking to myself, yet also to another, a stranger. I can’t talk to anyone real, and so I will try words on paper, instead of going mad! They won’t leave me alone. Any of them. And I feel so alone anyway, despite all Ima’s forced talks, all Aba’s kind little gifts. He thinks I don’t know the effort it costs him to just think of things I might like—hair barrettes and pretty handkerchiefs. He goes to little stores and ponders. I can just see his face, all bewildered and full of pained concentration in front of the little bows, the little linen squares, deciding which one will please me. Dear Aba.
I wish I could snap out of it. I feel overly dramatic and slightly ridiculous. After all, as they keep telling me, he was just the first boy I ever went out with. And I am only seventeen. And I do believe that it is all in G-d’s hands, as they never fail to remind me, convincing the convinced
Despite what they think, it’s not my pride, nor am I angry or embarrassed. I don’t even feel personally rejected. I wish I did I have such little pride that the damaged part would heal like a little scratch. And if I cared much about being embarrassed, I’d have the sense to stop embarrassing myself now. After all, isn’t this wretched mooning and childishness much worse?
I don’t know myself why I’m taking it so hard, except that simply, very simply, I miss him. Or perhaps the idea of him. I don’t even remember very vividly what he looks like anymore. It’s more like the outline of the sun. You can only just see the very edges. The rest you just imagine, filling in the blanks.
I’m not embarrassed. But I am ashamed of myself.
And yet, I feel I’ve lost a whole world, completely furnished, with little curtained windows and couches, with little babies and dinnertime conversation. It’s all gone up in smoke, like Hiroshima.
DATE: 15 NISSAN (MARCH)
I wonder sometimes, what she looks like, the other girl. I want her to be beautiful and charming and intelligent. I want him to feel happy. Why should he suffer, too? I don’t blame him. Honor your parents. Honor your teachers. They were all on top of him and he couldn’t push them off without sinning. Without giving up a fraction of his share in Heaven. I know I will see him in Heaven one day. Many years from now. And I will ask him how his life went. And he will turn to me and sigh and search my face and be afraid to answer.
I must work on myself. I’ve lost too much weight and now all the new, lovely clothes drop from my shoulders as if I were a clothes hanger. I don’t get out much. I don’t like running into people on the street. Their eyes seem to know so much. They either pity or they laugh. Or maybe it is just all in my head. I don’t know anymore.
School is fine. At least I think so. My teacher, Mrs Heiman, makes me come to her office sometimes to talk. We have long, aimless discussions on faith and on marriage and on motherhood. I like her. She is still young and looks so happy all the time. Her husband learns full-time and everyone says he is an illui who will become a great
rosh yeshiva
one day. I wonder what he does to make her so happy? All the things, the kindnesses. It is not so hard to imagine.
DATE: 21 NISSAN
Sometimes I find myself thinking about the gardens in Yemin Moshe. I must go there soon. All the spring flowers are blooming now: roses and daffodils, tulips and pansies. I should like to walk up and down the steps one evening and just breathe the air and watch the shadows on the stones.
I cannot go myself, though. It wouldn’t be right. It would look as if I were searching for someone, waiting for someone to find me. It would look cheap and obvious. My presence would be misunderstood and condemned. So I sit in my room. I read psalms and books of
mussar
. I am still a good person. I accept all my trials as G-d’s will, his way of making me reach within myself for new resources, for new heights. I must overcome these obstacles to be a better person, to win His love. I think I am making some progress. Day by day, the prayers seem to flow with greater force and sincerity. I seem to be able to envision a future now, without him.
DATE: 29 NISSAN
I am not going to lie anymore.
I reread all the pious drivel I’ve written, all the adolescent mush and feel physically nauseous. Oh, the piety of Dina Reich! Oh, her large-heartedness, her saintliness!
She is ridiculous. She is a little child weeping in the dark waiting for a pat on the head that will not come. Did you think if you were good, if you were kind, if you were full of compassion anything would change? Would it make your father a rich man, your mother an heiress? This is all that matters. Money and more money.
All these months, I’ve lied. Even to you, a lifeless piece of paper with no eyes or ears, no mouth to repeat, I lied.
Do I even know the truth?
Yes, it’s shouting to me from beneath all the pillows. It’s banging like a drunken drummer, demanding some attention.
I am curious.
If I knew anything about the world, I would run away and find him and make him go with me. I would slap him once, very hard, and force him to explain to me why he has broken faith and started to go out again!!
I went to his yeshiva the other day and stood across the street in the alleyway just as the boys were coming in for morning prayers. I wore my mother’s dark wig and dark glasses. I watched for him. But I did not see him. At least, I do not think I did. I saw someone who looked vaguely like him, though. But thin and pale and very tired in a rumpled black suit. This could not have been Abraham. Perhaps he has changed yeshivot. Dvorah will not tell me anything. She says all this has given her enough trouble. She tells me to forget it. To begin again.
I probably hate her, too. She will not tell me where he is, and so how can I know?
That boy, the one that looked like him … It could not have been, could it? My heart is cold and closed, like an old water cistern rusted shut by bad winters and neglect.
I mouth the prayers.
DATE: 1 IYAR (APRIL)
Ima and Aba and Dvorah are pressuring me to go out with someone new. Rabbi Garfinkel even spoke to me. He came by the house and sat by the dining room table and ate some cookies and drank some tea. He told me that he had made inquiries and had a few possible
shidduchim
for me. They are all tradesmen. Businessmen. All have money. And I shall go to the highest bidder, I suppose.
That is all I think about lately. Money. Wondering why some people have so much and others so little, and why we are taught that it is not important when it seems that it is the only thing that is.
Yet, Abraham and I would have had enough to eat. We would have had a roof over our heads. We would have had the richness of Torah and mitzvahs. Why wasn’t that enough? If what they have been telling me my whole life is actually true, it should have been, as it was for my aba and ima.
Why is it that nothing I learn at home or in school ever matches the reality of my life? Perhaps it is my life that is all wrong. It doesn’t seem to fit into the world as it is supposed to be. Why must I learn all the truths myself with no help from anyone?
They talk to me, and I seem to listen, but I don’t know anymore if I can believe what they say. Can people be partly right? Or, when they tell one small untruth is it just the tip of the iceberg? Underneath, is it all a huge, crumbling facade of lies and half-truths or simple foolishnesses?
I’ve lost faith in what I hear, in what I learn. And even what I see. The only thing I believe in now is what I feel.
And what I feel frightens me.
Rabbi Garfinkel sat by the dining room table and looked at his little book. It seemed soiled and worn. Can anything new and fresh and joyful come from such a book?
There are two fine young men he has in mind. The owner of a fine bakery inherited from his father and grandfather. A hard worker. A pious Jew. And an accountant who learns in the evenings. Who already has an apartment. Furnished tip-top.
He spoke these strangers’ names to me. He brushed the crumbs from his beard.
And there is a third, he said doubtfully. A carpenter. A pious Jew, but rather old for me. Nearly 26. He makes “trees of life,” the wooden staves around which the sacred parchment scrolls of Torah are wound.
Garfinkel, of course, prefers the baker. “Trees of life” are not loaves of bread, he warns me. People don’t commission new Torah scrolls every day.
What is his name? I asked him. You haven’t told me his name yet.
He sighed, flipping through his book. “Judah,” he said. “Judah Gutman.”
Gutman, I thought. Good man.
“Well, it doesn’t fit you the way it should. Maybe we could tuck it in a little,” Rebbetzin Reich said doubtfully, the lines around her eyes deepening, her mouth taking on the tragic slackness that had lately replaced the solid, confident strength of her youth. She lifted the material off Dina’s shoulders, pushing it in slightly towards her neck to make it fit better. Then she released it hopelessly.
“Here,
Ima
, you hold the baby. I’ll do it.”
Dvorah handed the active infant carefully to her mother, who looked down with a bright flash of forgetful joy that made all her features suddenly relax and breathe with new life.
“Look what a fist he makes.” She took the tiny fingers into her mouth. Was there anything more delicious, more blessed, and more redeeming than a first grandchild? It filled her with so much love that it physically hurt, like some ballooning inward pressure pushing out against her bones and muscles. A little treasure.
“Neshamalah
,” she called him. My soul. Nothing else even came close. G-d, in His infinite mercy, always provided the healing salve for any wound inflicted on the faithful. Little Shlomie (short for Shalom, meaning peace) had been her medicine during these awful days since the breakup of the
shiddach
. The quick, easy birth, the perfect, beautiful little boy, the joyous circumcision ceremony, had kept her too busy to brood over what was happening to Dina.
She was not allowed to brood. This the doctor told her when she came to him with the pains in her chest. Lose weight and don’t brood. Rest, he said. She smiled at the baby. Rest was out of the question. Doctors! But she tried to cut down on the slices of potato kugel and helpings of cholent on the Sabbath, the pieces of cake and cookies at kiddush, the herring in sour cream at Saturday night’s Melave Malka feast. She tried, but it was not easy, and the weight was not impressed. It stayed put.
