Mazel Tov

by J. S. Margot

  “If you need anything from the kitchen, we’d rather you ask us,” he said. “You can have anything you like. It’s just that our kitchen is entirely kosher, and we’d like to keep it that way. We’re happy to make breakfast for you, and other meals too. Abigail and I are usually around. Just in case, I’ve written the number of my office on a note stuck to the inside of your bedroom door. Don’t hesitate to call me, any time, except on Shabbat. You are our guest, welcome!”

  I thanked him for everything. “I think I’ll take a shower.”

  He nodded. “Feel free. But please don’t forget to lock the bathroom door behind you. I wouldn’t want to walk in on you by accident.”

  Six

  “You packed a long skirt and tights, I hope?”

  Abigail and I were sitting at the breakfast table. She’d squeezed oranges for me and baked poffertjes—little pancakes. Abigail had a British father and a Dutch mother, which explained the poffertjes. She was even prettier than the photo that Simon carried with him.

  We were alone in the house. Simon left home early every morning: a quarter to seven. He did his praying in the shul or with the requisite minyan—a quorum of at least ten adult Jewish men—in the clinic. Abigail only had one appointment that day. She worked as a lawyer in a big firm in Tel Aviv. Although she’d only recently got her degree, she already specialized in international trade law. In the bookcase in the living room, which also served as a study, law books stood next to leather-bound volumes of the Talmud, surrounded by textbooks that looked well thumbed. Loose pages headed “Gas contract between Israel and Qatar” lay on the dining table. On some of them, passages were marked in fluorescent pink and yellow.

  “Yes,” I answered. “I have got a long skirt, but not tights, they’re much too hot in this weather, and I’m not Jewish, you know.”

  She chuckled. “I get that, gal. But I’m going to give you some of mine for the next few days. For Shabbat, especially. How does my father-in-law put it again? Wat niet kan, kan ook. ‘What can’t be done can also be done.’ So please put on a pair of tights. If not for yourself, then for us. We don’t want to offend or upset our neighbours. A long-sleeved blouse isn’t a problem, I take it?”

  I wanted to visit Bnei Brak, but hadn’t intended to enter a synagogue or any other holy place. I just wanted to stroll round the centre. See what there was to see. Sit on a cafe terrace with a glass of something cool. “Do I really have to?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said. But not without wondering why I was deferring to the dress code of the Hasidim in this country, while they continued to wear their traditional garb in modern Antwerp.

  When Abigail saw me coming out of their guestroom a little later, she clapped a hand over her mouth in shock. “Good grief, you can’t go out like that! I can see your legs from top to bottom. Your skirt’s see-through. Not a problem in Antwerp, and in Amsterdam you could jog through the Vondelpark nude if you felt like it. But you’re in Bnei Brak now, kiddo. Come on, let’s go to the bathroom and I’ll show you how to dress up like an Orthodox Jewish woman.”

  The brisk friendliness with which she treated me after only a day reminded me of the familiar directness of Dutch students and colleagues. I liked their plain-spoken way of dealing with people, leaving no room for subtexts.

  “Here, put on this skirt of mine, and hurry up a bit. I’ve still got to prepare some stuff for work. And it’s going to be very busy. All the mothers will be doing their shopping for Shabbat.” She said “all the mothers” and not “all the women”. In Bnei Brak, which I’d renamed BB, the two were synonymous.

  Wearing her black skirt with matching long-sleeved top I felt like a nun, and in my flat shoes and much-too-thick, warm tights I looked like one too. The mirror in their hall was confrontational. I never wore make-up, but if this was the natural look, it needed banning pronto. In this moment it dawned on me that the more you had to cover up your body with fabric the more important subtle make-up, discreet jewellery and wigs became: otherwise how could Elzira and Abigail always look so pretty, dressed in the same garb?

  After opening the front door for me, Abigail quickly shoved my hair into a grey, stretchy turban to give my outfit the finishing touch. “Have a nice day,” she said, “and make sure you catch the bus back on time otherwise you won’t get home—there’s no way we can come and pick you up!”

  I didn’t have to wait long at the shared taxi stand before a sherut, a minibus taxi, arrived. I didn’t mind where I ended up, as long as I could just look around.

  I got in at the front and wanted to pay the driver, but when I held out a banknote he didn’t take it. Instead, without looking at me, he held out a cap. Like a robot I placed the money in it. He threw the change into the same cap, which he pushed towards me across his folding table. I went and sat at the back. When drivers didn’t want to take money from a woman in case they touched her hand, you could expect gender apartheid at all kinds of other levels. Not that my indifference meant I was resigned to reality. At most I was resigned to the impossibility of changing it there, by myself. And the muggy atmosphere was making me sluggish.

  The separation of men and women in the minibus proved less strict than I’d anticipated. And Bnei Brak reminded me of the neighbourhood around Mercatorstraat and Simonsstraat. The houses, not as tall as the ones in Antwerp, were poky and basic-looking, the built-up streets monotonous in their lack of display. I couldn’t even spot a nice garden, or a car bought for any other reason than functionality. Among the buildings were the odd yeshiva and kollel—institutes where unmarried and married men respectively studied the Torah and Talmud—which surely explained something about the landscape going past the window: those who study don’t earn money. Simon and Jakov had spent one or two years here at a renowned institute where the language of instruction was English and the ethos strict.

  Along the route, I saw a group of men davening. The way their upper bodies rocked back and forth and their almost ecstatic concentration made me think of dervishes; Nima had taken me to several dance performances. I was beginning to understand why the Jewish Israelis I’d spoken with in Tel Aviv—the receptionist at the Mercure, the flower seller who’d put together a bouquet of flowers for Simon and Abigail, the woman in the hummus bar, the young man who’d tried to sell me Ecstasy on the beach—had goggled at me when I told them I was going to Bnei Brak. The minivan had taken me, not to another neighbourhood or city, but to another planet: Ultra-Orthodoxia.

  Wherever we went, ultra-Orthodox Jews set the tone. I could only see Haredim, with whom the Schneiders, if I’d understood correctly, felt no religious and cultural bond, but in whose midst they were nevertheless nestling. Haredi boys devote around forty hours a week to Bible study throughout their entire school careers. After finishing school they continue to read, interpret and study. They couldn’t give a fig for subjects like maths, sociology or chemistry, and they never play football or tennis or any other form of sport. “Everything a person needs to know is in the Talmud and the Torah.” Haredi women don’t drive. They don’t even ascend stairs in public if they can help it, I’d been told—someone might see under their skirts. They cross the street to avoid encountering a man other than their husband coming around the corner. They interpret the command to multiply very strictly.

  “Why are those real Jewesses always so ugly?” Milena, my friend from the clothes shop, had once remarked, and several people around us had nodded in agreement.

  “They’re not!” I’d answered, stung. Later, I’d asked Elzira for her take on this comment.

  “Beauty is relative,” had been her answer, or something to that effect. She’d also said that Judaism gave clear guidelines to women on how they could remain attractive to their husbands. Should remain attractive. Did I know that, according to the Talmud, a devout Jewish woman could even forbid her spouse to go on a business trip if she felt a need for “intim
acy in bed”?

  I remember gazing at her in disbelief, tempted to laugh.

  The same feelings overwhelmed me here; I couldn’t say that most of the women I was seeing numbered personal attractiveness amongst their accomplishments. I wondered what the Talmud guidelines actually dictated.

  “You’re not an Orthodox Jew.” The woman next to me addressed me in English.

  Like everyone else, she was wearing the same clothes as me, though instead of a turban she sported a nightcap. “What brings you to Bnei Brak, if I may ask?” she went on.

  “I’m visiting friends.”

  “Haredim?”

  “Modern Orthodox.”

  “Oh Zionists. Yes, they live here too. Though far fewer than a few years ago. More and more Haredim are settling here in Bnei Brak. What do you think of them?”

  “Of Haredi Jews?… Interesting.”

  “Interesting? That’s a politically correct way of saying ‘weird’, ‘incomprehensible’, ‘outlandish’ or ‘dangerous’.”

  “Aren’t these Haredim Zionists, then?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine this sect not being attached to the state of Israel.

  “You’re clearly not from around here,” she answered.

  “I’m from Belgium. Antwerp.”

  “Antwerp? The city of fashion? I’ve heard a lot about it.” She stared at me in amazement, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. I became yet more conscious of my nun’s uniform and that hot thing on my head. Even in Tel Aviv, people would look at me weirdly. “Three-quarters of the Jewish population of Israel aren’t Orthodox or ultra-Orthodox,” she said, “so you can imagine that Haredim are super critical of the state of Israel as it is now. They don’t want a secular nation. Better not to have a nation at all than a heathen one. No, they’re not Zionists. In fact, they’re anti-Zionists.”

  “And yet they live here?”

  “It’s the best alternative. An enclave in an enclave.”

  I didn’t want Jakov, Elzira and Simon to have their young adulthood formed in this suffocating environment. In the hustle and bustle of Tel Aviv, I hadn’t seen a single yarmulke, beard, hat or kaftan. Here, I didn’t see a single man without. Why didn’t Bnei Brak have a beach? A beach—sand, sea, sun and bikinis—would do the people here good.

  “They wouldn’t hurt a fly,” the woman said, “and they’re very, very friendly. Talk to one of the women, you’ll see. They’re okay with how you are. They won’t impose anything on you. They let you do what you want.”

  “They won’t impose anything on me? But I’m not allowed to talk to men. And I’m dressed like a frump.”

  “That’s your own choice. And who’s stopping you talking to men? One will answer you politely. The other will turn his head away. No religion without rules.”

  “Have you ever eaten goose liver?” The question spurted out, to my own surprise, like venom.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Foie gras. Jews like to eat liver. Do they also eat goose liver?”

  “Yes of course. We invented foie gras!” She rolled the French name around her tongue as if savouring it. “Religious Jews aren’t allowed to eat lard. But they eat every part of the goose. Ever heard of tournedos Rossini? Steak with goose liver, a dish that must have been devised by Jews. It’s my father’s favourite. You don’t need real butter for it!”

  “To get foie gras, geese are force-fed!” I exclaimed. “The grain’s rammed down their gullets. The birds can’t stop eating, even when they’re full. They lack a natural inhibitory system, a valve that says: ‘Enough’. It seems to me that Haredim are like these geese. The Torah and the Talmud are rammed down their throats. They can’t escape it. It’s unethical and criminal!”

  I was shocked by my pent-up anger: why didn’t Simon live in Tel Aviv, that lively city I couldn’t wait to get back to? Why had he and his wife come to this shtetl, this open-air museum for Jews? Why had the Schneider sons studied here?

  The woman next to me ignored my outburst. She didn’t even ask about my friends, or about my reason for visiting this place. “I’m a Jew who lives in Washington DC and doesn’t give a hoot about Shabbat,” she said with a twinkle, “and I’m here for work.”

  “Do you understand what I meant by this comparison?” I insisted.

  “Western men and women are just as oppressed,” she said. “The men have to work. Earn a living. And the women have to be thin, young and pretty. Spirituality and a quest for meaning are confined to an hour of yoga a week. So who’s oppressing whom? And who’s better than whom?”

  Her sermon reminded me of Jehovah’s Witnesses. They rambled on in the same way. The main difference between them and ultra-Orthodox Jews seemed to be an urge to proselytize. Jews didn’t feel the need to convert others, whereas Jehovah’s Witnesses wanted to convert as many as possible.

  “We have choices. You can’t say that about these men and women,” I tried.

  “Says who?”

  “What kind of work do you do?” It was pointless trying to discuss this.

  “Consultancy.”

  “What kind? Who do you work for?”

  “A consortium focusing on projects for Haredim. They hired me because I’m an outsider. The fact that I’m Jewish but have a very different frame of reference gives me a good take on their traditions, customs and needs. I’m more or less familiar with Haredi rules. And because I’m American, they cut me a lot of slack, see? I’m allowed to makes mistakes, ask stupid questions. ‘They’ let me.”

  “So tell me about one of these projects that are specifically targeting Haredim.”

  “At the moment we’re looking into building a new shopping centre in the centre of Bnei Brak.”

  Her use of the word “we” when talking about a corporation was alienating. I’d never felt a “we” when it came to any employer I’d ever had. And words like “project” made me feel itchy all over.

  “A shopping centre?” I was keeping the conversation going.

  “Rechov Rabbi Akiva is the cheapest shopping street in Israel. Haredim don’t shop like we do. Everything that’s sold here has to do with children, the household and religion. Nowhere in the world are so many food containers sold as in Bnei Brak. If you want sensible underwear or sheets, you won’t find them cheaper anywhere else. You’ll pay a lot more for exactly the same product in Tel Aviv or Haifa. But you won’t find fashion items here.”

  “And the firm that’s hiring you wants to build a shopping mall here?”

  “They want to build a women-only shopping centre. No men will be allowed in it, whether as customers, staff or security guards…”

  I told her about the apartheid bus I’d stumbled into the previous day. How shocked I’d been by the segregation. Once again she didn’t react. Didn’t even shrug.

  “Where can I buy a Yiddish newspaper?” I asked. I wanted to take one home as a souvenir.

  “You won’t find one,” she assured me. “No one reads newspapers here. Only holy books. By the way, I’m Hannah, nice to meet you.”

  We drove past a Coca-Cola factory. The name of the drink appeared in Hebrew letters in the famous logo, but it took me a while to realize that; the familiar image was so anchored in my mind that I believed I could read “Coca-Cola”.

  “If you had to rank brands symbolizing modern, decadent Western life, Coca-Cola would be top of the list. I’m amazed to find this factory of all factories in the midst of the Haredim,” I said.

  “Everyone drinks Coke,” she said.

  “Haredim too?” I asked.

  “Of course. And they only drink Coke from this factory. You’ll almost never see them drinking imported coke. Not even at an airport.”

  “Why?”

  “Only in Israel can you be a hundred per cent sure that the drink is kosher. You don’t know that about
any other Coke producers in the world.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “No. At Pesach, the least little trace of yeast must have been removed from your home. Even in the homes of your modern Orthodox friends. Not a single crumb of bread must remain. But how can a religious Jew be sure that one of the Coca-Cola workers wasn’t eating a sandwich just as he was cleaning the bottling machine? They can never know that for certain. Unless the drink was imported from Bnei Brak. Around Passover, export here peaks.”

  “That’s too crazy to be true.”

  “Ask the manager of the Coca-Cola factory.”

  “It’s a good job the drink’s black—it’ll always match their clothes,” I mumbled, and laid my cheek against the cool window of the bus.

  Hannah looked at me in amazement. “Wow, how observant of you,” she said, “I’d never thought of that. I must tell my bosses. Maybe there’s a new project in it for us. Because perhaps you’re right. Maybe it’s not just the taste of Coke that makes it popular here. Who knows, perhaps the colour plays a role too.”

  I decided to get out. To visit the factory.

  “Where can I find somewhere to sit outside and have a drink?” I asked Hannah.

  “In Bnei Brak? There won’t even be a coffee bar,” she answered.

  “A restaurant?”

  “Here you don’t eat in the same room as people you don’t know. Nowhere.”

  “What do you advise me to do?”

  “Take another sherut to Rechov Rabbi Akiva. Go to Konditorei Katz, one of the best bakers in the city. There are two little tables there. You can order coffee with your cheesecake or challah. And maybe the old lady even serves Coca-Cola.”

  “How could you spot so quickly that I’m not Orthodox?” I asked, just before getting out.

  “You’ve rolled the sleeves of your blouse up above your elbows and you look at men.”