The World Outside (16 page)

I closed Moishe’s eyes and mouth, then kissed his cheek for the last time. Esther gave me a white sheet, and I covered him with it. I was moving like a robot, devoid of feeling. Papa and my brothers turned Moishe’s bed so that his feet would face the door. Yossi opened the windows to drive out the evil spirits. Mama had become a living statue once again. Baba was muttering in her native Polish and kneading her hands. And, through it all, Papa and my brothers kept praying.

Papa called the Chevra Kadisha, our burial society.

They came and took Moishe away to the funeral home. Papa and my brothers went with him, to stand guard
and to recite the Psalms until the funeral took place the next day. My brother would not be left alone until his burial, not even for a single second.

I covered all the mirrors in the house and removed the cushions from the sofa and chairs in the living room so that the family would be sitting lower than the other mourners around us. Then I slipped off my shoes before removing Baba’s and helping Mama with hers.

Esther and I began to call my brothers and sisters, who were scattered all over the world doing outreach. The ones who lived in our country would come to the funeral, but I had a sister with eleven children in Argentina and a brother with eight little ones in Australia. They couldn’t get home in time for the burial. After we had called everybody, Esther returned to her own home to put her children to bed.

Finally, it was quiet in the house. Both Mama and Baba were resting in their rooms, so I too climbed the stairs to my bed. I lay down but couldn’t sleep. I kept on listening for Moishe’s waking noises—his gurgling, his giggling, even his long cry when he was angry. Silence and my own anger were my only companions.

“How could you let this happen, Hashem? Moishe never hurt anyone! He was like a child!” I cried. I screamed. I yelled. I shook my fists at the heavens. But Hashem did not reply, and Moishe was still gone.

Suddenly, Mama’s arms were around me.

“Hush, hush,” she whispered, patting my back. “Hush.”

“Why did Hashem let him die? Why? Moishe never hurt anybody!” I wailed. “First He let me take too long to be born, so that Moishe didn’t get enough oxygen, and now Hashem took away what little breath he had left. I know you think it’s my fault, Mama, and I don’t blame you for thinking that.”

Her arms tightened around me. “Nothing is your fault, Chanie. I don’t hold you responsible for Moishe’s problems. You did nothing wrong. He was lucky to have you for a sister.”

“But he would never have been in a wheelchair if I hadn’t taken so long to be born!” I cried.

“It was Hashem’s will that he didn’t get enough oxygen at birth, not yours. And it was Hashem’s will that we lost him today.” She brushed the hair back from my tear-stained face and looked me in the eye. “You must never question Hashem, for He is always good. We must accept what He has in store for us without any questions. He has a reason for everything He does.”

“Do you really believe that, Mama?”

“I have to,” she whispered.

I didn’t think I could.

As the limousine passed through the cemetery gates, I turned back again to look at the man in the blue shirt
among the sea of Hasidim in black and white. I still couldn’t see the man’s face.
What does it matter if he is David?
I asked myself as I leaned back in my seat.
What does anything matter now that Moishe is gone?
As the thud of the earth hit Moishe’s casket, it reverberated in my ears and wouldn’t stop.

Esther touched my arm gently. “Are you okay, Chanie?”

I shook my head and swallowed my tears. She passed Baby Ari over to me. I ran my fingers through his springy curls and cradled his little body against me. Then it happened: the baby, my brother and his family disappeared.

Baby Ari pulled my nose and Moishe was gone for the last time. Only memories of his coffin weighed down by black earth remained. I tightened my arms around the squirmy little boy and his warmth soothed my pain.

Finally, the limousine pulled up in front of my house. Our friends and relatives soon followed us until our home was filled to bursting. Every day they came to
see us during the shiva, the seven days of mourning after the funeral. They tried to console us with kind words and comforting food.

Everything was a jumble in my mind, but I did remember that David came to our house a couple of times. I had guessed right. He was the man I’d seen in the blue shirt.

“I’d like to be with you every day,” he whispered to me, “but I don’t dare come so often.”

I forgot how I replied.

When the week of shiva passed, everybody left. Just like Moishe. Only my family and my anger stayed behind.

Every night I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. I kept seeing Moishe, lying so white and still on top of his bed. I kept repeating to myself what Mama had told me—that it was Hashem’s will for Moishe to be deprived of oxygen at birth and that I wasn’t to blame. After a while, I almost believed her.

The Sunday after the shiva, I went to meet David in Prospect Park. He had my letter from Juilliard with him.

“It came a couple of days ago,” he said as he handed the envelope to me.

After I read the letter, my heart soared. I even forgot about Moishe for a moment. I’d been offered a spot in the school’s voice program, starting in September. I’d also been offered a scholarship that covered my entire
tuition. They’d even supplied a list of music teachers, one of whom I was “strongly advised” to hire to tutor me “to fill the gaps” in my musical education.

At that moment, I knew, without the slightest hesitation, that the decision I had made at Moishe’s funeral was the right one.

“I want to go to Juilliard, regardless of how Mama and Papa feel,” I said to David. “There has to be more to life than what we have here in Crown Heights.” I waved the letter in the air. “This is my opportunity to find out. I’ll send my acceptance and my high school marks tonight.”

David sat down on the bench beside me. “It won’t be easy to tell your parents.”

“I know, but I won’t say anything yet. Not until the end of the summer, just before the fall term starts.”

“Are you sure?” David asked. “It doesn’t seem fair to let them believe you’ll be going to the seminary.”

“If I tell them now, they’ll torture me for the rest of the summer. I can’t take that. I don’t want to.”

“Well, if that’s what you want …”

But I could see by the expression on his face that he didn’t agree with me.

CHAPTER 17

D
avid and I were becoming more and more careless. We even started leaving the park together. Then, one hot afternoon in mid-August, a few weeks after Moishe died, the worst happened: we ran into my mother in front of the Brooklyn Public Library, right next to the entrance to the park. All of us stood frozen—Mama, David and me. I was the first to speak.

“What are you doing here, Mama?”

“I felt like a good walk.” Her eyes darted from me to David. “Hello, David,” she said casually.

It didn’t help that his face had turned a shade of crimson. “Hello, Mrs. Altman.”

“What a coincidence!” I babbled. “First I run into David in the park, and then I run into you.”

“What were you doing in the park?” she asked. Her voice was level—even cheerful—and if I hadn’t noticed
the tiny muscle throbbing by the corner of her mouth, I would have thought she wasn’t angry.

I had to think fast. “I was picking leaves. I want to start a leaf collection.”

“That’s an unusual hobby for a girl your age.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Show me,” she said.

“Show you?”

“The leaves you collected.”

“Oh, I didn’t find any I wanted.” I gestured to the majestic trees in the park behind us. “They’re just so ordinary.”

“All of them?”

I nodded. David remained mute.

Mama took hold of my hand and pulled it through her arm.

“Good-bye, David,” she said. “It was nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you too, Mrs. Altman,” he stammered.

“We mustn’t keep you,” she said. “I’m sure you have lots to do before the day is over.” She squeezed my hand. “Let’s go, Chanie.”

I had to break into a trot to keep up with her. The best I could do was glance over my shoulder at David, left standing forlornly behind us.

“Slow down, Mama!”

She picked up her pace and didn’t speak until we arrived home.

“David is a nice boy,” she said. “But he isn’t a Lubavitcher, and he’ll never be one.”

She went into the house before I could reply. I had no choice but to follow her. To my surprise, she didn’t say another word about David.

Dinner that night was a sad affair. Ever since Moishe died, every meal was full of sadness. It was as if my brother’s death had robbed my parents of their energy, their inner spark. And that night—like most nights—Baba refused to join us. She said she was too tired to eat and wanted to go to bed early. This was becoming a common occurrence.

When we finished our meal, I helped Mama clear the table. It was a relief to go to the kitchen to do the dishes. While I was working at the sink, I convinced myself that Mama hadn’t mentioned David to me again because she believed me when I told her that I’d run into him in the park. I was just putting the last plate into the cupboard when Papa came into the room.

“Come back to the dining room, Chanie,” he said. “Your mother and I want to talk to you.”

He left before I could ask any questions.

I found Mama in an armchair, leaning back, her eyes closed. Papa pulled two chairs away from the
dinner table and set them across from her. He sat down on one and pointed to the other, indicating that it was for me.

“Miriam, tell Chanie what we’ve decided.”

Mama sat up and squared her shoulders. She stared at me, frowning. My heart began to pound.

“I must tell you, Chanie, that I’m very disappointed in you,” she said. “Meeting that boy in secret—”

“But I didn’t, Mama! I ran into him in the park a few minutes before I saw you. I already told you that!” I felt that I had no other choice than to lie.

She shook her head disapprovingly. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I realize what you’ve been up to!”

Before I could defend myself, Papa jumped in.

“You know I agree with you completely, Miriam,” he said, “but it’s no use berating the girl for following her heart. She’s young! Have you forgotten that we were once young too?”

Mama met Papa’s gaze, and I had the feeling that a secret message was being transmitted between them. Mama was the first to look away. She turned to me and smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“I phoned Mrs. Ostorov after we got home today,” she said.

“Mrs. Ostorov?”

“You remember her. She came for lunch on Rosh Hashanah.”

A picture came to my mind. “Is she very short with red hair?”

“Yes, that’s her.” She paused and fiddled with the collar of her blouse before continuing. “What you may not know is that Malka Ostorov is a highly respected
shadchan
.”

“A matchmaker? Why would you call her?”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I sensed that I was in trouble.

“I phoned her for you,” she said.

I stared at her in horror. In our community, a matchmaker arranged
shidduch
dates for young men and women of similar backgrounds. The goal of these dates was marriage. Those matched would go on three or four dates before deciding if they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together. If they didn’t like each other, they went on more dates with other people, until they found the right partner. Before I met David, I could hardly wait until it was my turn, but the situation was different now.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I cried. “I’m too young to get married! I’m only seventeen. I want to go to school next year.” I knew that the moment had come. I had to tell them the truth now. I took a deep breath and began to speak. “There’s something you both should know.”

Mama cocked an eyebrow. “What is it?”

I forced myself to speak calmly. “I applied to Juilliard
to study singing. They’ve offered me a scholarship for the fall. That’s what I want to do.”

Mama’s mouth fell open. She stared at me without saying a single word. Papa was silent too. What was the matter with them? Couldn’t they hear what I was telling them?

“I want to go to Juilliard next year to become a singer,” I repeated in a louder voice. “I have a scholarship.”

“Juilliard,” Mama finally said, her voice full of wonder. “It’s the best music school in the world. A scholarship to Juilliard …” She shook her head as if freeing herself from a dream. “It’s out of the question. Men and women studying together? Performing in front of strange men? We’re Chabad,” she said firmly. “Such things are forbidden to us.” She turned to my father. “Hashem works in ways we cannot understand.”