Sotah (15 page)

For him, it never became just a job. The magic transformation of a piece of plain beechwood into a sacred part of the Torah scroll was always pure magic, turning the ordinary into the sacred. If he had been an articulate man, he might have said it was the best job in the world for a believing Jew, whose entire life was dedicated to just such an alchemy—turning the ordinary into the sacred. Even something as commonplace as washing your hands and eating lunch.

He had never said this to anyone. Never even expressed it to himself. Yet what he felt, he felt deeply, with the wordless depth of a small child or a great visionary.

The other carpenters, rough men who spent their days making Formica kitchen cabinets and bedroom closets for tightfisted housewives and their debt-laden husbands, often came to visit him just to see his handiwork. Many times, too, they came for small loans to tide them over until customers paid, or to borrow tools. He was known as a great pushover. He was also universally respected and held with the deepest affection and a bit of contempt as well. A great baby, many of the younger men thought. Living with his mother, going home for lunch. Never seen with a woman (they would have known). And what woman would have him, the great lummox! Never a word to say for himself.

But the older, wiser men regretted they had no unmarried daughters.

It was in Judah’s shop that all the religious carpenters gathered three times a day to create a minyan, the required quorum of ten men needed for prayer services. From behind the power saw, wooden lecterns were pulled out and dusted off, a shoe box filled with prayer books was taken out, and even a small, precious Torah scroll made its appearance, completing the unlikely transformation of the dusty shop into that of a small synagogue. Often, one or another of these men would ask him to carve them little wooden menorahs or mezuzah boxes to hold the sacred scrolls put up on doorposts to guard against evil spirits and to remind them of their religious duties. It wasn’t just the beauty of his work. Sacred objects imbued a special merit on their owners, which increased when the hands that made them were particularly worthy ones. They could think of no hands more worthy to make these holy objects for them than Judah Gutman’s.

He brought the great meat sandwich to his lips and ate dutifully. Already he could see the mystic tree rising from the wood. Of course, it would be pushing it, putting stress on the grain in sensitive places. But the result, if it could be achieved! He got up, forgetting all about the sandwich, which dropped to the floor. He looked down with regret and lifted it up, shaking off the wood shavings and carefully removing the meat. The bread he would give to the birds on his way home. It would be their gain. He hurried to the back of the store and found the disk. With a sharpened pencil he sketched the preliminary design, his heart floating a little as he imagined the intricacies and the difficulties of the execution. He was elated.

He was also totally unaware of time passing until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Reb Yid,
maariv
,” Lazarovich, the bedroom closet maker, said with amusement. Always someone else had to remind Judah that night had fallen and it was time for the evening prayers. Judah was the one who rounded up everyone else for the morning and afternoon prayers, dragging them to the minyan so they wouldn’t miss the time deadline. But with
maariv
, which could be said all night, he needed reminding.

“Maariv already?” He was absolutely stricken. “What time is it?”

“Six-thirty!”

How could it be? He had just sat down for a few moments! The girl! he thought with sudden alarm and shy pleasure. His mother! he groaned.

Still, he joined the quorum of men and prayed with his usual, unhurried devotion. But when he’d finished, he ran to lock the store. Then he remembered the bread for the birds. He unlocked the door, found it, and pushed it into his pocket.

“Good night, Judah. Good luck tonight!” the men’s hearty voices rang out.

Everybody knew everything, he thought. But how? He felt the blush rise up his cheeks, and he waved to them with good-natured acceptance. Then he flew home, his dusty, paint-flecked shoes pounding the pavement like a guilty little boy’s.

His mother opened the door, and he avoided her wide and stricken eyes, rushing past her into his bedroom.

“Special order,” he called out. “I’ll be ready, you’ll see.” He began stripping off his clothes and rushed into the shower before her voice caught up with him.

The hot sharp needles of water pounded relentlessly on his skin as he soaped himself with energy. Beneath the merciless beating, he turned his thoughts to the terrifying topic he had so successfully avoided all week: Dina Reich. Rabbi Garfinkel had described her wonderful family, their willingness to help with the wedding and living expenses, and last (although it was the only part that interested him) the girl herself.

He already had an apartment, thanks to his mother’s thrift and her foresight. For years she had taken the monthly profits of the store he handed her—he wasn’t even sure how much it came to—and invested it in linked bonds, stocks, and mutual funds. And then, about a year ago, she’d told him about the three-bedroom apartment she’d purchased, along with the appliances and even a living room set.

He didn’t need or want a penny from the girl’s parents, even though everyone insisted that was the way things were done. He remembered the things Garfinkel had told them about Dina and tried to envision the girl.

It almost seemed like a dream.
Shadchens
always exaggerated, everyone knew. But a fellow at work had told him he knew the Reich family and that Dina Reich was a “little beauty.” And smart. And sweet.

He loved delicate, small things the way only a big, awkward man can. Tiny flowers etched into wood. Tiny birds pecking away at little crumbs. Small, opening buds. There was such a thrill for him in the charm of small things, their grace and loveliness contained in such a limited space. He worked in small spaces, little corners of wood. Or perhaps it was just his heightened sensitivity to anything beautiful, and small things seemed to carry more beauty about them per square inch.

A little beauty. He shut off the water, feeling guilty about how much he had used. Usually he bathed the Jerusalem way, wetting himself just slightly, turning off the water, soaping himself down, then turning the water back on for a quick rinse. It was a method born of the city’s chronic water shortage, which had only recently been alleviated by modern water systems. Still, every drop of water was precious. Water left on for the whole shower was a luxury.

He scrubbed his body harder, as if trying to scrape away some of its bulk. What would she think of him? he thought without much hope. Women never liked him. They liked lanky, elegant yeshiva boys with white hands and spotlessly clean nails, hands that touched nothing but the outside corners of Talmud pages and prayer books all day. They liked men who knew how to joke or tell inspiring stories. And he never knew what to say. Oh, he knew jokes and stories. But just being with a young woman tied his tongue into so many knots that he wound up acting like an idiot. It had happened with every girl he’d ever gone out with. He wanted to be friendly and warm, yet they made him feel so stupid and clumsy that he felt himself acting that way, fulfilling their expectations.

He took shampoo and poured it into his hair, then reached up to massage his scalp. Only then did he remember. A haircut! That was why his mother had looked daggers at his head when he’d come in.

What was to be done about it now? All the barbers were long closed. A slow panic began to eat at his bowels, and he felt the sharp, knifing contraction of his intestines. “Dummkopf!” He slapped himself sharply across the forehead. He shouldn’t have started with the new design. That had been his downfall, where he’d gone wrong! He was always going wrong and not even feeling it until it was too late, he berated himself.

He shut off the water and took the big, rough towel and rubbed himself raw with it. He used a corner of it to wipe off the steam from the bathroom mirror and then looked at himself. The steam still rising around him gave his complexion a ghostlike pallor. But what was very, very vivid, what filled the entire mirror, was his long, thick, unruly crop of hair. He flattened it down with both palms, but it was hopelessly long, hopelessly thick, hopelessly curly.

He combed his thick mustache, then took out an electric shaver and cleaned the day-old stubble from his cheeks and chin, mourning as usual that long beards and carpentry did not go together. Most
haredi
men wore beards because of the biblical edict not to follow the custom of the gentiles of putting a knife to one’s face. Modern technology, however, had invented the shaver, which worked like a scissors, not a knife, making it
halachically
acceptable to shave without really changing the custom. With few exceptions,
haredi
men still wore beards.

He put on his bathrobe and went out into the hall.

“Sit,” his mother commanded.

He sat. A few minutes later she was back. Greenberg was with her, from downstairs. He took out his scissors and a clipper.

“In Budapest, Mr Greenberg was known as the barber of the aristocracy. Isn’t that right, Mr Greenberg?”

Greenberg nodded phlegmatically, clipping away. Judah felt his head growing lighter. “Momma, I’m sorry.”

“I know. I know. You forgot,” she said with rare resignation. “Listen, my son, I’m not yelling. Don’t be depressed. Be cheerful. Be happy. Smile a lot. Talk about the rebbe’s speech in shul. About the nice apartment with the new appliances. About how good the business is going.” She wrung her hands in anxiety, hovering around him, taking long, critical looks at the work in progress.

When Greenberg finally wrapped up his scissors, his mother was smiling. “Beautiful. For this no money can pay, but take it anyway.” She pressed a generous amount into the barber’s hands. He opened his palms in alarm.

“G-d forbid! I should give up my merit for a mitzvah like this for a few shekels! Please, Mrs Gutman. Invite me to the wedding. That’s all I want.” He hurried to leave as she chased after him with the money.

“He was faster than me, what can I do?” She sighed, pocketing it. “You’ll make his wife a beautiful mezuzah box. Don’t forget.” A small glimmer of humor flashed in her eyes. “Never mind. I’ll remind you. Go eat now, and then get dressed.”

Although he had no appetite whatsoever, he felt the spoon and fork and knife in his hands, the food going into his mouth. The plate was clean, and he felt neither more nor less hungry than when he had started.

The clothes were laid out on his bed, all spotlessly clean and spanking new. A suit he had been forced to buy custom made, given the paucity of selection of clothing in his size. It wasn’t so much his height as the broadness of his shoulders. He could never fit his physique into the flimsy little proportions of the average suit.

He dressed quickly and searched for a full-length mirror. He didn’t exactly remember where in the house it was, so seldom had he had occasion to use it. His mother’s look was one of startled pleasure.

“Now, just a run with the comb through the hair,” she said. He bent down, and she combed and patted the hair into place. He looked into the mirror and couldn’t believe his eyes, nor could he decide, exactly, if he was appalled or delighted. He certainly looked different. The dark suit, so beautifully fitted, actually gave his body a fine definition. He looked wonderfully manly, even distinguished. Only the paint stains on his fingers and clean-shaven face belied the picture of a
kollel
man. He could have been an elegant businessman on his way to an important meeting.

When his mother’s back was turned, he remembered the bread and stuffed it into his pocket. He had rushed home, forgetting to scatter it along the way.

His mother brought out a tie.

“Do I really need one?”

“You won’t choke. And if I know you, you’ll need all the help you can get.”

Chapter twelve

“
Y
ou look so pretty. If only you would smile,” Rebbetzin Reich beseeched. She was standing next to Dina in the living room, giving her lovely dress a few appreciative pats.

Dina gave her best imitation of a smile, a little too gay to be real. Her mother shook her head and took her daughter’s cold little hands in hers. “The dress is so
shayn
, so beautiful. Turn around again, let me look.”

She turned around. She let her mother look.

A small pain, like a sudden needle prick, pierced the elder woman’s heart. She sat down. “Try to have a pleasant time, won’t you?”

“Is this the shopman, the carpenter one?” Chaya Leah came bounding in from the bedroom. “Is he a big man? With a mustache and great, big hands?”

“Have you done all your homework, Chaya Leah?” Rebbetzin Reich asked her wearily.

“Of course,
Ima
.”

“Well, have you straightened out your room, then?”

“Why, yes. It’s perfectly clean.”

“Well then, why don’t you help the boys with their homework?”

Chaya Leah looked around the room with resentment. “I don’t see why I always have to be shunted off in these situations. Really, I don’t see why I’m not wanted. I wouldn’t disgrace anyone, or ask embarrassing questions …”

“Please, Chaya Leah! Just … go!” her mother pleaded.

“How am I ever going to learn anything if I keep getting shoved out of the way whenever anything interesting happens? You’re all so mean to me!”

Her tone, bordering on defiance and disrespect, left a shocked trough of silence in its wake. Ezra hurried into the room, his serious face shocked; gentle Benyamin and little Duvid looked close to tears. Even wild Asher and Shimon Levi the troublemaker seemed overwhelmed.

Then the uproar began.

“How dare you speak to
Ima
like that!” Dina shouted, her nerves already stretched to the breaking point.

“And to upset Dina just now, why, it’s just typical,” Dvorah lambasted her.