by Naomi Ragen
“But how can I ask him not to follow the laws? It’s his life. He is so scrupulous. Such a tzaddik.”
“That’s fine when it comes to personal mitzvoth. He can be as uncompromising as he wants when it comes to what he puts in his mouth to eat and the length and sincerity of his prayers. But you are talking about mitzvoth that concern the two of you. You have to decide this together.”
“I didn’t know there was anything to decide.”
“I’ll give you an example. Do you cover your hair when you are home with the children?”
“Of course!”
“Well, that is not the halacha. Jewish law says a married woman needs to cover her hair only when she goes outside the house.”
“But everyone in Boro Park covers their hair inside!”
“First of all, you don’t know that. All you know is that when someone comes to the door, their hair is covered. But what goes on inside when they are alone, you can’t know.”
“That’s true.”
“But even if every woman in Boro Park covers her hair twenty-four seven, that still doesn’t make it the halacha, and you still only have to cover your hair when you go outside.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I’m not surprised. Most baale teshuva blur the lines between law and custom and practice. But if you are finding certain things absolutely disgusting and it’s ruining your shalom bayis, you need to talk it over with your husband.”
“Or a rabbi.”
“Oh, right. Sure thing. Bring a rabbi into your bedroom!” Shoshana rolled her eyes. “But you should be prepared. Yaakov will probably want to do just that.”
“No, he won’t. We actually discussed that on our wedding night.”
“What?”
“That we should keep rabbis out of our bedroom, that what went on there should just be between us. Like leaving on a light.”
“You see? He sounds absolutely reasonable. There is no reason to be afraid of talking to him about this. Discuss with him what you can and can’t do. Compromise.”
Leah stared at her, dumbfounded, finally realizing the truth. For the first time since completely altering her life and becoming an Orthodox Jew, she felt unwilling and unable to compromise anymore. Not on this.
“I will keep going to the mikvah. It’s not so bad. I even sometimes enjoy it—all that pampering, the long baths, the lovely soaps and creams afterward. And the mikvah I go to is so clean and pretty, and the attendants are friendly and not intrusive. They treat the whole thing so modestly. But all the rest of it … Why should having my period, which is such a natural thing for a woman, make me feel like an outcast, like I’m unclean, untouchable? It’s disgusting. I hate it.”
“Oh, finally, the good girl has reached her limit. Congratulations!”
“I don’t understand why you’re not shocked and disappointed.”
“Don’t you think women like me who are born into haredi families and grow up in that world have the same feelings about certain things? Especially some of the more stringent rabbinical decrees that were dreamed up in the Middle Ages? The lives of modern women are so removed from all that.”
“So what is the solution, Shoshana?”
“I’m not going there, even for you, my friend. As they say, consult your local Orthodox rabbi. But in your case, I’d say talk it over with your husband. He’s spent twenty years learning Talmud in kollel. If anyone can tell you what the true halachic limits are, he can.”
“But what if he takes a very hard line and won’t budge?”
“How much do you love him?”
“How wide is the ocean? How many stars are in the sky?”
Shoshana shrugged.
“But that’s irrelevant. It’s not a question of love. It’s a question of life. My life. It’s degrading! I can’t do this to myself! I became religious to live a higher, purer life. This feels like the opposite, like I’m turning into some woman in a mud hut, put in purdah because I’m menstruating. It’s primitive, and it’s ugly. I’m not doing that, Shoshana. Not because I don’t love God, or love my husband, or the Torah. But because I can’t do it and still be who I am. And if after knowing how I feel, Yaakov still insists on it, I don’t know how I’m going to feel about him and our life together.”
For the first time, Shoshana looked shocked.
“You understand? That’s the reason I’m terrified to talk to him about it, why I keep putting it off.”
“But not talking about it isn’t a solution either, my friend.”
“I know that! The other day, I was playing with the children, and we were dancing around the apartment, and I reached for one of my old playlists of rock songs. I put it on really loud and danced wildly with the kids. I didn’t even think about pulling down the shades or what the neighbors would think, not until they came banging down my door! For the first time since I became religious, I reached for my old life. You understand? I’m so scared.”
Shoshana leaned forward, taking both Leah’s hands in hers and holding them. “I wish I had some words of wisdom for you, my friend. But I don’t. I understand you only too well. But I can’t tell you what to do. Yaakov is very frum, and he is uncompromising when it comes to halacha. I really don’t know what will happen if you are honest with him. But this much I do know: if you’re not, if you don’t sit down and talk to him, tell him the truth about how you feel, your marriage is over.”
* * *
Leah returned home that night feeling drained, almost shaking with despair. But determined, too. Yes, Shoshana was right. She must talk to Yaakov. Nothing could be as bad as this avoidance, which amounted to a life built on lies. Their life together had to be based on truth. She told this to herself over and over again, trying to convince herself to crack open the Pandora’s box and let loose those very monsters that could gobble up her new life and spit it out.
Yaakov was still out learning with Meir, she saw. The rest of the house was silent. She knocked on Shaindele’s door.
“Come in,” the girl called, not bothering to get up.
“Hi. Everything all right?”
Shaindele swept her open palm in an arc as if to say, Voilà, see for yourself!
“Did they give you a hard time, Shaindele?”
“Well, they asked for you, and Chasya was a little weepy, wanting to know when you’d be home. But she was okay after dinner and a bath.”
“Thanks so much for your help. I’m really sorry I had to bother you.”
Shaindele got off her bed and walked toward her. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I gave you such a hard time. You can ask me to babysit. I don’t help you as much as I should.”
Leah was touched and relieved, glad that the bad old days when she and her oldest stepdaughter were adversaries weren’t coming back for a sequel. Under all that bravado and occasional nastiness, she was really a sweet kid. Just a typical teenager.
“So are you going to tell me the truth about what you’re doing out so late every night?”
Shaindele blushed, shaking her head.
“Okay, I’m not going to pressure you. I’m not a warden, and this isn’t a jail, and you are old enough, and smart enough, to think about your choices. But if you want my help or advice, I’m happy to talk to you anytime, Shaindele. All right? I was also once a teenage girl.”
Shaindele nodded gratefully. They wished each other good night.
Actually, Leah was relieved to be spared an outpouring of teen angst at the moment, facing as she was her own difficult, life-changing choices. It almost made her feel sick. She poured herself a cup of tea, nursing it in the darkened kitchen, rehearsing what she was going to say when Yaakov walked in. But then she thought, Tomorrow is my mikvah night! Why would I want there to be bad blood between us after two whole weeks of separation? No, she would put it off, at least until after she did her ablutions, when she could at least hold his hands as she spoke to him. It made so much more sense, right?
When Yaakov returned, they spoke to
each other softly about their day, the usual small talk, falling asleep in their separate beds. The following day, she woke up with a smile, just thinking of the night ahead. She whistled as she dressed the children, who laughed and tried to pucker their lips and whistle, too, with little success but much laughter. And after she’d dropped them both off at school and day care, she hurriedly took care of her computer clients, creating a new email list for one, posting a few ads for others, then working on an online campaign for a local dress store.
She took care of the housework, the children, as efficiently as she could, all the while her mind and heart open to the night ahead. Yaakov came home early to help her, taking over dinnertime and bath time so she could leave early for the mikvah.
And when she returned, the house was quiet, the children already asleep, and Shaindele behind her closed bedroom door.
In their bedroom, she saw he had lit some candles and moved the beds together.
“I brought you a present,” he murmured after taking her into his arms and kissing her—lingering kisses filled with longing, amplified by the many unbearable days of separation they had endured.
She opened the small package, her eyes bright with pleasure.
“It’s a CD, Dance Neginah.” He smiled. “Jewish music for dancing at weddings. I’m sure the kids will love it.”
Such a thoughtful gift, she thought, her eyes sparkling with tears. He’d forgiven her; forgiven her ignorance and all the trouble she’d caused him with the neighbors. He’d forgiven her for holding back, keeping secrets for two weeks. He wasn’t angry. He is a saint, she thought. And I am worthless to have doubted him and our life together. I must be stronger, for his sake. He deserves it. He went against the world for my sake, and for his sake, I can sacrifice a little. Why would she want to do anything to hurt such a wonderful man? She had signed up for this. She’d known exactly what she was getting into. She would just try harder.
At that moment, it all seemed so possible. Curled up in his arms, the horrible separateness dissolved, becoming blurred and indistinct, almost as if it had never been. It was simply in the past, she told herself. Besides, every other woman in the haredi world seemed to manage with it just fine. She didn’t think about Zissele, the first wife, the one who had not managed at all.
She wouldn’t think about this now. What was the point? They had two weeks together! Two whole weeks. She would wait. Maybe it wouldn’t bother her so much the next time. Maybe she’d get used to it, like she’d gotten used to putting away her cell phone on Friday night until sundown on Shabbos. The way she’d gotten used to wearing long skirts, and shirts with long sleeves, and stockings even in summer. The way she’d gotten used to how her hair covering pressed in on her scalp and temples, giving her a headache. It was possible, wasn’t it? There was no point in upsetting him now, no point at all, when it was possible that for his sake she might get used to it. She would think about it some other time. She would wait and see, she told herself, pressing her cheek into his bare shoulder and breathing him in.
11
AN ELDERLY ROMANCE
Close to Chanukah, the holiday of light, the darkness finally overtook Rav Alter. His beloved wife of almost fifty years passed away quietly in her sleep. Rabbi Alter was at her bedside, and when she took her last ragged breath, he sobbingly ripped the collar of his suit jacket, the traditional sign of mourning.
The funeral was held immediately, as is the custom, and word of mouth spread the time and place. It seemed that everyone in Boro Park knew within the hour. Like one big family, the inhabitants of the crowded apartment houses and little brownstones put aside their normal activities and made the pilgrimage to fulfill the mitzvah of comforting the bereaved.
For Fruma Esther, it was more than an obligation. She had known Malka Alter almost all her life, having grown up in nearby streets and gone to the same Bais Yaakov.
Another funeral, she thought as with a heavy heart she walked down to the funeral home on Sixteenth Avenue. She couldn’t believe how many people were there! Only the death of a Hasidic rebbe draws more, she thought proudly.
Little Malka Ruth Alter. She shook her head. As frail as a bird with her skinny legs and long, scarecrow arms. And that was before her illness, God should watch over us. But from that scrawny body, she had brought forth six healthy children, four of them sons. A true miracle. It had never been easy for her; she was never robust. But she had done her duty toward her husband and her family, may her memory be forever blessed! Fruma Esther pressed her lips together tightly as if she could say more about the burdens that had been put on this good woman, some of them enormous and unnecessary.
As the rebbitzen of a community that encompassed one of the most respected yeshiva gadolas and kollelim in the neighborhood—known all over the haredi world for its depth of commitment to learning and to strict observance—as well as the synagogue attached to them, she had overseen an empire that required endless participation and dedication. Dozens were hosted for meals every Shabbos, and double that for the holidays. Of course, she had help. But to oversee all the buying and storing and cooking was also no small thing.
And this was her reward: packed crowds waiting to recite psalms and prayers that would accompany her soul on its journey to the highest levels of the World to Come, where a chorus of heavenly angels would sing her name to welcome her soul’s arrival.
At least, that is what Fruma Esther so wanted to believe even when all the evidence of her eyes showed her nothing of the kind. There was only the plain pine box covered with a velvet, gold-braided cover wheeled in on a metal gurney by bearded men. And there it sat at the front of the room, as the women and men, separated by an impenetrable mechitza, crowded each other to catch a glimpse of the strange and pitiful sight that was all that remained of this fine woman’s existence in this world, the same as for any ordinary, even evil, person whose soul had left their body.
It was an unfathomable thing, Fruma Esther thought. Unfathomable. You could never understand how the sacred life that had flowed so strongly through a person suddenly stopped, leaving behind this useless carcass that one could do nothing but hide away in the earth as quickly as possible.
The service started with the chanting of psalms, chosen because they began with a letter of the deceased’s name. This was followed by the first of many eulogies. Sons and grandsons rose up to give learned discourses on the week’s Torah portion, doing their best to relate it to some sterling quality of the deceased. The more ambitious calculated the numerical value of the letters in her name and found parallels with other things of the same numerical value.
Unlike a man’s funeral, where one could go on and on about all the public offices and communal activities of the deceased, when a woman died, the relatives had to be content with talks praising her “modesty, hard work, and love of Torah.” Of course they would mention how wonderful her cooking was and how generous her hospitality to strangers and the poor. But central to women’s eulogies was the statement that “she never said a bad word about anyone, and always judged people favorably.” Silence was a virtue for women, as well as not rocking the boat.
Sometimes this irked Fruma Esther. Several very close friends had lived difficult lives with unreasonable husbands who had put them into early graves. To hear their self-imposed silences praised seemed wrong. What will they say about me, Fruma Esther wondered, those faceless crowds huddled beneath their wigs in the women’s section, those men in long beards and black hats on the other side of the mechitza? What will my daughters and sons and in-laws say? My dear grandchildren?
It was usually the grandchildren, or great-grandchildren if you were so blessed, that gave the best eulogies, their young faces naked with raw grief as they wept, recalling the honest pleasures of their bubbee’s Shabbos seven-layer cakes and Yom Tov brisket with prunes and apricots. The children were more removed, restraining their grief, or perhaps more conflicted. A mother was not a grandmother. You had other responsibilities that sometimes necessita
ted measures that were often severe and unpleasant in order to keep your children from straying off the right path. They would only forgive you when they used the same methods on their own children. Forgive, but not forget, she thought.
She looked around at the other women, realizing with a shock that she was one of the oldest. Yes, this was the way it was. You got married, and everyone around you seemed to be getting married. Every other week, there was another chuppah you were invited to—years of cakes with white frosting and vigorous Hasidic dancing. And soon it was the circumcision ceremonies you were attending, the crowded synagogue halls, the mohel and sandak in white—the former to do the slicing and the latter to hold the baby still while reaping the honors of being enthroned in the Chair of Eliahu the Prophet. Before you knew it, it was the bar mitzvahs you went to, boys in their first Borsalinos and custom-made dark suits that could do nothing to hide the fact that the guest of honor was still a little boy playing dress-up. Then suddenly all the little boys and their sisters were getting married. Suddenly, the cycle started over again, this time with the grandchildren. But the invitations were fewer. Sometimes they invited their grandparents’ friends, and sometimes they didn’t. If you got an invitation, you went gladly, sending your wig to the beauty parlor, buying another silver kiddush cup engraved with the young couple’s names as a gift, and forcing your arthritic legs to get up and dance a hora.
And after that it was a simple hop, skip, and jump (actually, more of a long downward slide, she thought) to this, the rectangular box on the metal gurney.
It was an hour before Rav Alter finally got up, the last of the eulogists. They were all used to hearing him speak. He did so every week in the short break between the end of the Torah reading and the beginning of the Musaf prayers. He was a good speaker, not taxing his audience with too many complicated pilpulim or burdening them with heavy doses of mussar. His eulogy was short, and to the point, his face open and lively with a natural warmth.
