The World Outside (3 page)

“Faygie and I are going to the mall with Devorah Leah. Faygie is picking up the candles and booklets.”

“I’m going to the mall too,” Yossi said. “Several boys from my yeshiva are coming with me.”

“You can’t go, Chanie,” Mama said, her voice full of challenge. “I’m taking the train into the City on Sunday. There’s a matinee at the Met that I don’t want to miss. Somebody has to take care of Moishe.”

She stared at me, but I was the first to lower my eyes. I could never understand her, not if I lived a million years. Her life was a closed book she never opened. Her parents died before I was born, and she had no brothers or sisters. All I knew was that she came from a Chabad family. She dedicated all her energies to ensuring that the Torah was the center of our existence and that I behaved like a proper Lubavitcher girl. We had no television and never went to the movies. We never read non-religious books or newspapers—not even the
New York Times
. And we only listened to Jewish music.

Except for Mama, that is. Opera rang out from her cassette player when she cooked, when she took care of Moishe and even when she typed her briefs. I can’t remember her ever justifying herself to the rest of the family for listening to such music. Strangely, I never
heard her sing or even hum along to the music. And when it came to my singing, she was unyielding.

“A Lubavitcher girl does not listen to secular music,” she told me when I begged for a radio.

“A Lubavitcher girl does not sing goyish songs,” she said, her face full of disapproval, when she heard me sing the tunes I had learned at my friends’ houses. I knew better than to hum the melodies I heard on her cassettes in her presence.

I felt like screaming, “Is there anything a Lubavitcher girl
does
do?” I never did, though, for I always remembered how she blamed me for Moishe.

The few times I gathered my courage and asked why she could listen to opera, which wasn’t Jewish music, when I wasn’t allowed to listen to the Rolling Stones, she would tell me not to be cheeky and then freeze me out with one of her silences until I became silent too.

And that’s why I knew it was useless to argue with her about going to the mall with Faygie if she had already made up her mind.

But I couldn’t help myself.

“Why can’t Yossi stay home for once? Mrs. Rosenfeld will dock me marks if I don’t go. And I promised Faygie that I’d go with her!”

“I have to go on outreach too!” Yossi cried.

“Nobody has to stay at home,” Baba said. “Chanie can feed Moishe before she leaves, and I’ll keep him
company until she gets back. You’ll be home before his dinner, won’t you, Chanie?”

I nodded.

“Let the girl go,” Papa agreed. “We don’t want her to fall behind in her schoolwork.” He gestured to Mr. Glasser. “Samuel and I have business to discuss once Shabbos is over. He wants to return to the City on Sunday morning. Once he goes, I’ll be home for the rest of the day. I’ll help Mother with Moishe if necessary.” He turned to me. “I can give you girls a lift to the mall and pick you up when you’re done.”

“Thank you, Papa.”

“All right, Chanie,” Mama said stiffly. “You can go, but be sure that you’re home before five. Moishe gets hungry early.” She scooped Ari out of his high chair and kissed the top of his head. “Who is Babbie’s little boy?” she murmured.

CHAPTER 2

I
couldn’t fall asleep. I tossed and turned in my bed, Mama’s angry face in front of my eyes. A lump rose in my throat as I remembered the harshness of her tone when she spoke to me. I understood that it was immodest of me to sing in front of Mr. Glasser, but I didn’t do it on purpose. Why couldn’t she see that?

I decided to get a glass of water and padded down to the kitchen in my bare feet. Baba was sitting at the kitchen table in the dark. A glass of milk was on the table in front of her.

“Can’t sleep either?” she asked.

“No.”

She patted the chair next to her. “Sit down.”

I turned on the tap and filled my glass before joining her.

“Still upset about the singing?” she asked.

I covered my face with my hands. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“Then why can’t Mama see that? She was so angry!” I brushed away a tear with my fist. “She’s always so mad at me!”

Baba squeezed my fingers. “Your mother is a good woman. But she is a bit prickly, just like you.”

“Me?!”

“Yes, you! You’re more like your mother than you realize. You remind me so much of her when your father asked me to call the matchmaker to arrange a marriage between them.”

My ears perked up. This was the first time I’d heard her talk about this.

“Tell me what happened.”

She took her cane and stood up. “That story is your mama’s to tell.”

“Don’t go, Baba! I can’t sleep, and I need somebody to talk to.”

“I’m tired.”

“Please stay!” I pleaded.

“Oh, all right. But just for a minute.” She sank back into her chair. “What do you want to talk about?”

“You never speak of your life in the old country. What was it like?”

She rolled her shoulders tiredly. “It all happened so long ago. Why do you care?”

“Because I love you,” I said, kissing her parchment cheek.

“Silly girl,” she scolded, but I could see by her smile how pleased she was. “All right, I’ll tell you what I can remember.” She leaned forward and rested her arms on the table. “Our family lived in the same village for generations—my father, mother, grandparents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins,” she began. “Then one day, the matchmaker arranged a match between me and your grandfather, and we married. We were poor but happy. And of course, we had our Rebbe, the sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe, who fulfilled our lives.

“We hadn’t been married long when the war broke out and the Nazis deported us to Auschwitz. I almost starved to death there, but I’ve told you that already. When the war was finally over, I discovered that all my family was gone. Everybody was forever lost, except your zaida and me.”

A million questions rushed to mind, but I was worried that she would stop talking if I interrupted her.

“At the end of the war, we found out that our Rebbe had sailed to the United States, so we decided to follow him. It wasn’t easy, but we finally obtained our papers and were able to join him here, in Crown Heights. I’ve been here ever since. Baruch Hashem, our children were
born and we were happy once again. But not for long.” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Your zaida’s health was never good after the camps, and I lost him before you were born.”

She paused for a moment, deep in thought.

“I cried and cried until I had no more tears left,” she finally said. “I realized that no matter how difficult life was, I couldn’t give up. There were my children to think of.”

The moonlight shone on her face, highlighting the faraway expression in her eyes. I had a feeling that she’d been transported back to the past and had even forgotten I was with her. Finally, she shook her head as if to clear it, then resumed talking.

“I bought this house with the life insurance money your zaida left me,” she said, her eyes sweeping around the kitchen. “I made a living—a meager one, mind you—by renting out rooms. Your papa and his three brothers slept in one room, and I slept in another with the three girls. The girls and I cooked for the tenants, cleaned their rooms and washed their clothes.” She straightened up in her seat. “I made sure that my sons devoted themselves to studying the Torah, the Talmud and the Tanya. You know how learned your uncles are.” Her voice was full of pride.

“Life became easier after your papa married your mama. She helped me take care of this barn of a house”—she gestured around the room—“even when she started
working for a lawyer’s office,” she said. “Her salary helped with our expenses and made it possible for your papa to devote himself to his religious studies.”

“Did Mama—”

“No more questions!” she said sharply. She grasped the handle of her cane tightly and dragged herself up. “Time for bed.”

On Shabbos afternoon, I went to find Papa in the living room. He was sitting on the sofa with a large book cradled in his arms. He lowered it when he saw me.

“You learning, Papa?”

He nodded. “The Rebbe’s writings are so beautiful.”

He smiled at me sweetly. I knew that I was his favorite, although he would never admit it.

“Your mother was tough on you last night,” he said. “Don’t mind her manner. She is full of goodness. And she has your best interests at heart.”

“She can be so hurtful sometimes.” I sat down beside him. I had bigger issues to discuss, but I didn’t know how to start.

Papa seemed to sense my uneasiness. “What’s bothering you?” he asked.

I looked at the large framed photograph of the Rebbe hanging on the wall and took a deep breath. “I often wonder how people can be so sure,” I said, choosing my words carefully.

“Sure of what?”

“Of everything.”

Papa twirled the tip of his beard around his little finger. “Everything? That’s a broad term. Give me an example.”

“The Rebbe is always reminding us that if we do good deeds
—mitzvot
—we might be responsible for the coming of the Messiah very soon. But how can we be sure of that?”

Papa leaned so close that I felt his breath on my face.

“Listen to me, and listen very carefully,” he said. “If the Rebbe tells you something, you must
never
question it. You must believe it. The Rebbe sees things that we don’t see. He is our
Tzaddik
, and he might be even more.”

“More?”

“I don’t have to spell it out for you, Chanie. You know perfectly well what I mean.”

CHAPTER 3

T
he mall was buzzing with shoppers when Papa dropped us off at the main entrance on Sunday. My friends and I carried shopping bags filled with candles and booklets explaining the prayer that was to be spoken over them. Near the escalator, we passed a group of Lubavitcher boys, my brother Yossi among them. They were offering to put tefillin on the Jewish men who passed by.

“Hey, Chanie, you girls better park yourselves upstairs,” Yossi called. “We were here first!”

“Only because I had to feed Moishe.”

“Too bad!”

His companions were careful not to meet our eyes. They shuffled their feet and stared at the floor. One of the boys even tipped his wide-brimmed hat low over his face to banish us from view.

My friends and I lowered our eyes modestly, but I
couldn’t help noticing that Devorah Leah had turned an interesting shade of crimson. Yossi seemed completely oblivious to her, although he did nod to Faygie.

“A matchmaker will approach Mama and Papa about Devorah Leah and my brother after he graduates from his yeshiva,” I whispered to Faygie. “I can feel it in my bones.”

She nodded, grinning.

“Go upstairs!” Yossi repeated.

“I want to stay down here,” I argued. “There are always more people on the main floor.”

“We were here first!”

Devorah Leah tugged my sleeve. “I don’t mind going upstairs.”

“Me neither,” Faygie said, pulling me toward the escalator.

I could have stayed to fight, but I realized there was no point—Yossi would win in the end, just like he always did—so I followed my friends to the escalator.

On the second floor, right at the top of the escalator, a store displayed colorful music cassettes in its window. The sounds of an orchestra wafted through the shop’s open door. I stopped in front to listen.

Immediately Faygie began to pull on my arm. “Come on, slowpoke! These shopping bags are heavy.”

I let myself be dragged off down the hall, past furniture stores and gift shops and a jeweler’s. I grunted in
relief when Faygie finally stopped in front of a dress shop called Sassy Boutique.

“This looks like a busy spot,” she said.

We put down our bags and took off our jackets, folding them up and piling them on the floor. As I straightened up, I found myself staring into the shop window. It was filled with headless mannequins. Some were dressed in tight knit dresses with short skirts, while others wore blue jeans and bright sweaters. How I wanted those jeans—even after I reminded myself that the Torah forbade women from wearing men’s clothes. I glanced at my friends. We looked like a bunch of ravens in our dark skirts and thick stockings. Only the pastel colors of our long-sleeved, high-necked blouses differentiated us from each other.