Naomi, The Rabbi's Wife

by Miriam Finesilver

  Slowly he approached and raised one eyebrow, managing to silently communicate, “Wanna talk?”

  Her eyes were no longer riveted upon the stained glass, but upon his attractive face. His blue eyes, framed with dark brown eyebrows and lashes, were warm, exuding a special kindness even as they looked directly at her. Rather than being threatening, his directness invited her trust. It was as if he were extending a complete acceptance of who she was.

  Maybe it was his hair, dark brown and worn in a boyish cut, which made her feel extremely at ease. It spiked up a bit on the right, and at the left, in the back, stood a small cowlick.

  She smiled and stuttered out, “I was wondering when Yom Kippur service was?”

  “Tomorrow’s Rosh Hashanah. Ten days later is Yom Kippur. You have a ticket?”

  “A ticket? . . . Oh, I remember, every year Dad bought them early to get them cheaper.” Do I sound like a dunderhead or what? She gave a tiny laugh. “This is the first time I’m not going with my parents.”

  His mouth seemed to have a perpetual smile. “If you do me a favor, I’ll get you in.”

  Intrigued, Naomi asked, “What’s the favor?”

  “Apples. I have to get them at the farmers’ market—you know, for the apples and honey after the Rosh Hashanah service tomorrow. And it can’t be just any apples. I was told they have to be Red Romes. You know how to tell the difference?”

  “Sure, my mother taught me.”

  “We have a deal then. Let’s go. My name’s Daniel.”

  “I’m Naomi—Naomi Goldblatt.”

  He pantomimed tipping his hat. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Goldblatt. I’m Daniel Cantor.”

  Only one minute ago she had felt like an interloper. And now this handsome—rather whimsical—young man made her feel she was welcome in this very place. No, it was more than that; she was meant to be here. Something to do with destiny. She’d contemplate this later.

  They crossed the street and appeared to be heading toward the waterfront. “Where is the market? I’ve always seen the signs, but I’ve never gone. Always wanted to, but never—”

  “Seems I came along in time for a few new things, huh?”

  She looked at him, scratching her head.

  “You said you might possibly attend shul without your parents for the first time, right?”

  Naomi blushed. “I usually go home and spend the holidays with them. It’s not like I’m a pagan or something. I’ve always gone—”

  He reached out his hand and pulled her back onto the curb—she was about to walk into oncoming traffic. Now she blushed even more.

  “Didn’t want this to be the first time you got hit by a car either.”

  When they arrived at the market, they were confronted with an overwhelming variety of apples. “Glad you’re here. How do I tell which ones are the Red Romes?”

  “That’s easy.” Without hesitation, Naomi went to a vendor. “Which are the Red Romes?”

  The man directed her to the third bin on the left. Naomi looked back at Daniel who stared at her, shaking his head in amazement.

  Naomi shrugged, “Hey, my father always told me ‘Naomi, never say you can’t.’”

  He playfully hooked his arm around hers. “C’mon, let’s go buy some apples.”

  Daniel purchased enough fruit for an estimated 200 congregants to each have a slice or two. To Naomi’s sheer embarrassment, her stomach made a loud growling sound.

  Maybe he didn’t hear.

  He smiled and asked, “Want an apple?” He quickly added, “I’m hungry, too. Did you notice that table we passed? Looked like they had some homemade breads and stuff.”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  There was a young girl stationed behind the table displaying the breads and delicious-looking spreads and preserves. She told Naomi and Daniel, “My mom makes all this stuff.” Her big smile revealed her wire braces. “My favorite is the banana bread.”

  Both Naomi and Daniel simultaneously said, “That sounds great.” When he saw Naomi digging into her shoulder bag, he tapped her hand. “My treat this time. Next time, it’ll be yours.”

  The girl with the braces said, “Oh, and it’s especially good with Mom’s fresh apple butter.”

  “Sold,” Daniel told her. “Do you have maybe some napkins and even a spoon or a knife?”

  She grinned at Naomi and Daniel, putting both a spoon and a knife into the paper sack.

  Bet she thinks we’re a couple.

  He pointed with his chin to a bench facing the East River.

  It was a perfect day for sitting on the picturesque promenade. The sun’s beams warmed her face while the breeze from the river was gentle. Naomi cut two slices from the loaf and Daniel opened the Mason jar filled with the apple butter and spooned a generous portion onto both their slices.

  “Oh, this is so delicious,” Naomi exclaimed, grabbing a napkin and catching a large dollop of the butter before it fell onto her lap. “Oh no, you’re about to—” She hastily used her napkin to intercept the apple butter about to fall onto Daniel’s lap.

  “Thank you . . . so normally you go to your parents . . . where is that?”

  “I’m from the Catskill Mountains. A little town in Ellenville.”

  “Our family used to go there for vacations. To a bungalow colony. Ellenville? The only synagogue there is an orthodox one, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “I’d sit upstairs with my mom. Where are you from?”

  “Rutherford, New Jersey. You know where that is?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Its claim to fame is being the birthplace of William Carlos Williams.” He paused and studied her face. “Doesn’t look like you’ve ever heard of him.”

  “Should I have?”

  “Well, do you think you should know the poet laureate of 1952?”

  His playful smile delighted Naomi. How could she not reciprocate? When she returned his smile, it was as if the heaviness of the last five months blew away into the river they were facing.

  “In one of his most famous poems, he says something like to be truly happy, we need to make others happy—and that’ll make us happy.” He suddenly turned away from Naomi. “This is embarrassing. I can’t believe I’m sharing this.”

  Naomi leaned forward, trying to get him to turn back around to her. “Good grief. Believe me, I’m the one who usually embarrasses herself. It’s neat having someone else do it.”

  He now turned back toward her and they momentarily studied each other’s face. Naomi spoke first. “I’m not usually this comfortable with someone, not someone I just met.”

  “Are you familiar with the term ‘b’sheirt’?”

  “My mom used that word once, but I never understood . . .”

  “I heard someone say it described anything where you could see the fingerprints of divine providence. You remember what your mom was talking about?”

  Naomi put her head down and took a big bite of the bread. She felt him waiting for an explanation from her. Finally she said, “It was when Mom was talking about how she met Dad, but I don’t want to bore you.”

  “If she spoke of b’sheirt, it had to have been interesting.”

  “Okay, but you can stop me if it gets boring.”

  Daniel cut himself another slice of bread and smeared on more apple butter.

  “Dad was born in New York—the lower East side. His parents came over from Russia and they stayed here in New York . . . probably like your parents, right?”

  Daniel took a bite of his bread and looked out at the water. “My parents’ story is a little different. Go ahead, tell me about yours.”

  Had she hit a raw nerve? Here’s this guy I only just met and now I’m. . . oh, never mind, he’s not like Gary. He really seems interested. “The part that’s different with my mom’s family is that her parents, even though they also came over here from Russia, once they went through Ellis Island, they traveled south, all the way to Alabama. So, it’s like I come from this mixed marriage: Dad�
�s a gruff New Yorker and Mom’s like a sweet gentle southern belle. Did you ever hear anyone say ‘shalom y’all?’”

  His warm eyes crinkled with a smile. “Now I have. And you know what? I think I see both sides in you.” He laughed. “See? Only a southern belle would blush at something like that. Go ahead, how’d they meet?”

  “Some friend of Mom’s family, I think I remember his name was Hersh Siegel, was dating my aunt Yetta. He came to Mom’s house one day and told her about this Jew working at Maxwell Air Force Base. Mom told me she thought he was the first Jew to ever work on the Base.”

  “Yeah, they were pretty discriminatory back then, weren’t they?”

  “Well, it turned out he wasn’t in the Air Force or anything, but was a tailor at the Base, not a soldier. So they got fixed up with each other. And then before Dad returned to New York, he promised Mom he’d write to her. And this is the part I love. With his last letter, she opened it and a paper cigar ring and a one-way airplane ticket to New York City fell out. His letter told her to put the paper ring on her finger and fly to New York, and then when she got there, he’d put a real diamond on her finger.”

  A young man carrying a guitar case walked in front of them and stationed himself at the edge of the sidewalk with the scenic background behind him. He took out his guitar leaving the case open for donations.

  “Guess this is our cue to leave,” Daniel whispered and then grimaced. “I’ve heard him before.”

  They tossed their garbage in a receptacle directly behind their bench and stood to leave.

  Naomi had been so comfortable with this man. What was to happen next? Probably only disappointment. “I don’t know about this creepy synagogue thing. . .”

  “Creepy? Why?”

  She had no answer, but was rescued by the guitar player’s screeching. “You were right.”

  He grinned. “I got to get these apples back to the creepy synagogue. Would you help me carry them? And if you change your mind, I’ll get you tickets for tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” she said as he handed her two of the smallest sacks.

  With the walk back accomplished in silence, Naomi blamed herself for saying the stupid “creepy synagogue” thing. Arriving back at Temple Beth Orr, she told Daniel, “I’ve carried them this far, it’s like they’re attached to me. I’ll help bring them in.”

  Once past the dark corridor, they climbed down a flight of stairs and entered a brightly lit kitchen and social area. Several elderly women were putting out plates, folding napkins, and counting out forks. One of the women called out, “Hello, Rabbi Dan. You’re just in time.”

  Naomi dropped her sacks. “Rabbi? Rabbi Dan?”

  With a somewhat mischievous smile, he simply nodded.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “You let me say—”

  “I’m only the Associate Rabbi, not the Senior Rabbi.” He picked up her sacks of apples and gently said, “I really hope you’ll accept my invitation for tomorrow. It’s not creepy, Naomi.”

  “What time?”

  “Six-thirty tomorrow night. Wait here and I’ll get you a ticket.”

  While waiting she overheard one of the women speaking Yiddish to another lady. Pointing toward Naomi, the woman exclaimed, “Shayna maidela.” She had been called pretty. She considered going over to this nice woman and thanking her, but before making up her mind one way or another Daniel returned.

  “You sure I shouldn’t pay for this?”

  Daniel shook his head. “You just better come, that’s all. See you tomorrow night.”

  Naomi floated home.

  “Zoey – check this out. Didn’t know I could look so grown-up, did ya?” Naomi studied herself in the full-length mirror attached to her closet door. Clothes lay in a heap atop her bed, the aftermath of Naomi’s attempts to find something acceptable for the evening’s Rosh Hashanah service.

  She finally chose a dark brown suede skirt with matching jacket, discovered one day several years ago at her favorite thrift store. Not only would it have cost a fortune if bought new, but it also flattered her figure.

  Naomi, stop thinking about Daniel. He’s not the reason your feet were like velcroed in front of the synagogue.

  Inherently she knew the God her mom talked about was the One guiding her steps. How could she think about a man, especially a rabbi, before she got right with God Himself? But what was she to do, lie to herself? Since waking up this morning, the image of the handsome man with the playful smile and warm eyes seemed to dance in front of her.

  Rabbi Dan . . . He introduced himself as Daniel. Why can’t I call him that? No, guess I’ll have to call him Rabbi Dan.

  Walking to Temple Beth Orr, Naomi imagined telling Mom she would be attending a Conservative shul and sitting with the men. The only time Mom experienced such a thing was at her wedding.

  The wide concrete steps leading into the synagogue were easy to scale, even with her rarely-worn high heels. Not wanting to look at fellow congregants fearing she was the only person there without a family, she kept her head down and dug into her pocketbook for the ticket. At the last step, she looked up and saw him standing at the front door, shaking hands with each person entering. Even with a dark suit and tie on, he still managed to appear casual. Naomi especially enjoyed seeing his cowlick poking out from behind his yarmulke.

  He saw Naomi and his smile broadened. He leaned into her and discretely asked, “Remember where I told you to sit yesterday?” She nodded and he handed her two books. “I should have given you these yesterday. This one is your Siddur. It has the prayers we will be doing today, and this one is the Chumash.”

  “The what?”

  “Your Bible. Relax, Naomi. I’ll see you afterwards for the apples—Red Romes, of course.”

  With the press of people waiting to say hello to Rabbi Dan and make their way into the synagogue, she smiled and followed others into the sanctuary. The men were in suits and virtually all the women wore fancy, often large, hats. Another generation. Naomi recalled one Rosh Hashanah seeing her mother dust off a fussy-looking blue hat. She was so grateful when Mom said, “Don’t worry, sugar, you don’t have to wear one.”

  The sanctuary was roughly as high as it was long and wide, comprised of light tan brick and blond wood. On the wall behind the raised platform were large Hebrew letters. One day Dad had explained to Naomi, “See these letters—they’re to help you remember your Ten Commandments.”

  Guess I’m going to have to deal with the Big Ten eventually.

  Beneath the letters and at the top of a three-step approach to the raised platform, she recognized the Ark. All the years of Jewish Youth Group came back to her as in a flood. She remembered the day their teacher escorted the young girls into the sanctuary to see close-up the elements only the men were allowed to touch.

  Fifteen years later, she could still hear Mrs. Zabrinsky’s warning. “You can look, but never ever touch it. You know what’s inside there, girls? The Torah.”

  Even if Naomi could never touch it, she could gaze upon the beauty of the ornate cabinet which held the sacred scrolls covered in its rich indigo-colored velvet fabric. It would have been lovely to touch.

  Hearing people greet each other with L’Shanah Tovah, she tasted a sweet familiarity. They may have been reciting by rote their good year wishes to one another, but to Naomi, a newcomer amongst them yearning to feel embraced, these words evoked a time when she was accepted. She took the plunge and turned to the family sitting in front of her and wished them L’Shanah Tovah. They did not respond with much warmth. The husband muttered in a monotone the expected greeting back.

  Soon after experiencing this sting of rejection, a man walked onto the platform wearing a blue and white prayer shawl draped over his head, the fringe delicately cascading down his frame. He stopped very deliberately at the right side of the lectern, stood perfectly still for a brief moment, giving enough time to create a dramatic profile and commanding a contag
ious hush throughout the sanctuary. Once the stillness filled the room, he lifted up a shofar and brought the large ram’s horn to his lips. Naomi was transfixed at this tableau, her eyes especially resting on the ancient trumpet with all its unique twistings and bendings.

  She lifted her moist eyes upward and silently mouthed, “Thank You.” As the ancient music pulsated in the air, she understood God had created a pocket solely for her, a pocket in time and space.

  A short balding man wearing a white robe and a white yarmulke came forward. “I welcome you.” He turned to Daniel seated on the platform, “And Rabbi Dan welcomes you.”

  I guess this guy’s the Senior Rabbi. Nothing like Daniel.

  The Senior Rabbi asked people to turn to page five-hundred and eighty for a responsive reading. Naomi went into panic mode. Daniel intuitively glanced over at her and smiled when he saw her looking back at him. He subtly lifted up the book on his lap which was the prayer book he had given her.

  She took his cue and read responsively with the others, thanking the “Lord our God and God of our fathers.”

  A woman, also in a white robe, seated to the right of Daniel, stood. The Rabbi gave her room to share his lectern, and her chanting began. Allowing a woman to perform the role of Cantor was as novel to Naomi as her being allowed to sit among the men. As a performer herself, Naomi saw clearly the Cantor enjoyed performing before the crowd. Perhaps because the Cantor was an attractive young woman, long blond hair perfectly draped around her shoulders, there was a twinge of jealousy. Oy, thou shalt not covet.

  The Senior Rabbi was silently mouthing along with the Cantor. To Naomi it appeared he wanted to be the one doing the chanting, but now was not his turn to lead.

  Huh, bet he’s a control freak.

  Sure enough once the Cantor’s role was finished, the Rabbi eagerly rushed back to the central place he had temporarily abdicated, almost stepping on the hem of her robe.

  It was time for the sermon. “Today is our formal beginning for the High Holy Days, the Days of Awe. We should all now embark on the solemn process of introspection and repentance for our past misdeeds.”