Maybe I shouldn’t ask this of God, this wish to be sent home to change just to avoid a couple of hours of school, not if there’s a chance I might have to sit down to a lecture about obedience and honor at the dining room table.
Rebbetzin Kleinman’s office is a mess. I press one shoulder against the creaky door to shove it open, moving boxes of envelopes and pamphlets away from the doorway so I can tiptoe inside, careful not to tip over any of the open boxes perched at the edge of her desk. There seems to be no free space for me to sit down; the one other chair is a wooden stool piled with prayer books. I perch on the edge of the windowsill, the section where the paint isn’t peeling too badly, and prepare for a long wait. I have a special prayer for these occasions, Psalm 13, my favorite, and I always repeat it thirteen times in these situations. “Consider and hear me, Hashem,” I mumble quietly in Hebrew. Dramatic pleas, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Also, it’s the shortest psalm in the book, thus the easiest to memorize. Please let me not be in enough trouble to have Zeidy notified, I pray silently. Let her just give me a scolding and I will never forget to wear a shirt again. Please, God. “How long shall my enemy be exalted over me . . .”
Outside the secretaries are gossiping loudly, devouring the snacks they confiscated during morning prayers from the few kids who hadn’t managed to eat breakfast and had hoped for a chance to get something into their growling stomachs before first period. The next break isn’t until 10:45. “How long will you hide your face from me, Hashem . . .”
I hear footsteps out front, and I straighten up quickly as the principal heaves her considerable bulk into the office, red-faced with the effort. I finish up that last round of the psalm in my head: “I will sing unto Hashem, because he has dealt bountifully with me.” It takes her a few minutes to get settled into the enormous armchair behind her desk, her breathing loud and labored even after she has been seated.
“So,” she says, turning to look at me appraisingly, “what are we going to do about you?”
I smile sheepishly. It’s not my first time in this office.
“Your teacher says you’re having trouble following the rules. I don’t understand why you can’t be like everyone else. No one else seems to have any problems wearing shirts under their sweaters. Why do you?”
I don’t answer. I’m not supposed to answer. All her questions are rhetorical; I know that from experience. I’m just supposed to sit quietly with my head down and my expression humble and contrite, and wait it out. After a few moments, she’ll wind down and become more affable, looking for a compromise. I can tell she’s tired of having to discipline me. She’s not one of those principals who enjoy the thrill of the chase, like the one who used to make me stand outside her office for hours in the sixth grade.
The verdict is in.
“Go home and change,” Rebbetzin Kleinman says, sighing in defeat. “And don’t let me catch you breaking the modesty rules again.”
I slip out of her office gratefully and take the four flights of stairs two at a time. The moment when the spring sunshine hits my face is like the taste of Zeidy’s kiddush wine, my first breath of fresh air a long, slow tingle down my throat.
At the intersection of Marcy Avenue and Hooper Street, I cross over to the other side without even thinking about it, to avoid the massive Catholic church that graces the corner. I keep my eyes averted from the seductive statues staring at me through the gated enclosure. To look directly at the church grounds is to look at evil, Bubby says when we pass this corner; it’s an open invitation to Satan. I cross back over at Hewes Street, quickening my pace because I can feel the eyes on my back, and I picture the stone figures coming to life, lumbering down Marcy Avenue, shattering a little with every step.
I hug my arms, rubbing them to get the goose bumps to go down. In my rush I almost collide with a man walking in the other direction, mumbling prayers to himself, his earlocks swinging. I have to step awkwardly into the gutter to avoid him. Funny, I notice suddenly, there are no other women on the street. I’ve never been on the street at this time of day before, when all the girls are in school and mothers are busy cleaning house and preparing dinner. Williamsburg seems hollow and empty. I quicken my pace, jumping over the puddles of dirty water shopkeepers spill out into the street. The only sound is the harsh echo of my own staccato footsteps on the cracked asphalt.
I take a left turn on Penn Street, passing Mr. Mayer’s grocery on the corner, and leap up the steps to my brownstone home. Pushing open the heavy double doors, I listen for any sound but hear none. I close the doors gently just in case. My shoes make faint clicking noises as I climb the staircase, but if Zeidy is in his office downstairs, he doesn’t hear them. I take the key from under the doormat that Bubby leaves for me when she goes away, and sure enough, the lights are off and the house is quiet and still.
I change quickly, buttoning a long-sleeved blue oxford shirt all the way to the top so that the collar is tight against my neck. I put the sweater back on over the shirt and pull out the two collar points so that they rest neatly on the navy blue wool, and I turn twice before the mirror, checking to see if I’m tucked in on all sides. I look like a fine girl, just like Zeidy wants me to be, just like teachers always call Chavie, the rabbi’s daughter. Fine, like expensive fabric, like good china, like wine.
I hurry back through the empty streets to school. The men shuffle home from their learning sessions to eat the lunch their wives have prepared, dodging me on the sidewalk, making a show of looking the other way. I want to shrink into myself.
Inside the school building I expand in relief. From the safe vantage of my classroom I gaze out the window overlooking Marcy Avenue and marvel anew at the absence of color and life down below, in stark contrast to the buzzing of a thousand girls pent up in this square-block, five-story building. Occasionally a young man, dressed all in black, straggles up Marcy Avenue toward the Satmar shul on Rodney Street, hands swirling through the payos dangling near each cheek, keeping them curled into neat spirals. The older men wear their payos wound tightly around their ears and use their hands instead to smooth down their prolific beards, even as they are buffeted like flags in the wind. All of them walk quickly, heads down.
In our community, markers of piety are very important. It is imperative that we appear at all times to be pious, to be true agents of God. Appearances are everything; they have the power to affect who we are on the inside, but also they tell the world that we are different, that they must keep away. I think much of the reason Satmar Hasids dress in such a specific, conspicuous manner is so both insiders and outsiders will remember the vast chasm that lies between our two worlds. “Assimilation,” my teacher always says, “was the reason for the Holocaust. We try to blend in, and God punishes us for betraying him.”
Snap. Mrs. Meizlish flicks her thumb and forefinger loudly under my nose. I start.
“Why aren’t you looking in?” she asks sternly.
I shuffle nervously through the loose-leaf binder on my desk, looking for the appropriate stencil. Mrs. Meizlish has the whole class looking at me now, making a show of waiting for me to get myself together. I can feel my cheeks redden. I think we are studying berachos now, and I know I have the “Guide to Proper Blessings” somewhere in here. I make a show of finding the right place, and Mrs. Meizlish gives me the barest nod of approval.
“Which blessing for strawberries?” Mrs. Meizlish, still standing in front of my desk, asks in the special Yiddish singsong.
“Bo-rei pri ha’ad-am-ah,” the class sings back in unison. I whisper along halfheartedly so that she can hear me, hoping she’ll move back to the center of the classroom so I don’t have to stare up at her chin, covered in a wash of black baby hairs.
After recess, it’s time for the daily modesty lecture. Mrs. Meizlish continues where we left off in the story of Rachel, Rabbi Akiva’s saintly wife, and the rest of the class stares raptly at her. She has a good way of telling a story, Mrs. Meizlish, with her thick baritone t
hat she modulates into an erratic rhythm that never quite lets you get comfortable. She always pauses at the best parts of the story to smooth a few stray hairs into her braid or pick an invisible piece of lint off her skirt, while the suspense builds and the girls gape anxiously at her.
Not only was Rachel, wife of Akiva, a truly righteous woman, but she was also an exceptionally modest person, to the point where—and here Mrs. Meizlish pauses for effect—she once stuck pins into her calves to keep her skirt from lifting in the breeze and exposing her kneecaps.
I cringe when I hear that. I can’t stop picturing the punctured calves of a woman, and in my mind the pricking takes place over and over again, each time drawing more blood, tearing muscle, gashing skin. Is that really what God wanted of Rachel? For her to mutilate herself so that no one could catch a glimpse of her knees?
Mrs. Meizlish writes the word ERVAH in big block letters on the chalkboard. “Ervah refers to any part of a woman’s body that must be covered, starting from the collarbone, ending at the wrists and knees. When ervah is exposed, men are commanded to leave its presence. Prayers or blessings may not be uttered when ervah is in sight.”
“Don’t you see, girls,” Mrs. Meizlish proclaims, “how easy it is to fall into that category of choteh umachteh es harabim, the sinner who makes others sin, the worst sinner of all, simply by failing to uphold the highest standards of modesty? Every time a man catches a glimpse of any part of your body that the Torah says should be covered, he is sinning. But worse, you have caused him to sin. It is you who will bear the responsibility of his sin on Judgment Day.”
When the bell rings to signal final dismissal, I have my book bag packed and ready, jacket in hand. I hurry out of class the second the teacher gives us the signal, hoping to make it at least to the second floor before the staircases become choked by the crowds. Sure enough, I race down the first two flights but come to a short stop as I round the corner to the second floor, where groups of chattering students squeeze through the doorways, pushing and shoving through the crush on the staircase. I’m forced to take it one slow step at a time, as I wait for the other girls, who are in no rush, to move. It seems to take forever to descend those last two flights, and I feel as if I am holding my breath, until I finally burst out of the stairway on the first floor, zigzagging through clusters of first graders to get to the exit. I cut a straight path through the front yard with its high brick walls topped with loops of barbed wire, gallop down the wide stone steps, and spare only one last glance at the headless gargoyles jutting from the turrets of the crumbling stone building.
The new spring air thrills me as I run, shoes slapping loudly on the pavement, down Marcy Avenue, leaving the slow-moving crowd behind me, racing to be the first one home. The streets are full, swollen with schoolgirls in pleated skirts spilling over into the grimy gutters. Cars honk as they drive slowly past. I feel my shirt collar digging into my neck, and I open the top button and shake the collar loose, inhaling deeply. There are no men to be found, not now, not at this hour, when the street belongs to me, and to me alone.
2
The Age of My Innocence
The Hasidim had great leaders—tzaddikim, they were called, righteous ones. Each Hasidic community had its own tzaddik, and his people would go to him with all their problems, and he would give them advice. They followed these leaders blindly.
—From The Chosen, by Chaim Potok
Zeidy wakes up at four in the morning to go study Torah at the synagogue across the street. Just about when I wake up, at eight o’clock, he comes home for a spartan breakfast of whole wheat toast, American cheese, and a slice of pale green Italian pepper. He sits across from me at the small kitchen table and I watch curiously as he eats, ritualizing the process with precise motions, cutting his food into small pieces and chewing contemplatively. Often he becomes so immersed in the process of eating that he doesn’t respond when I speak to him.
He says the blessing after meals loudly before retiring to his office downstairs, ostensibly to work on whatever real estate project or finance deal he is involved in at the moment. No one knows what Zeidy actually does for work. Is he the merchant or the scholar? I always wonder; where does he fit into the ancient trade-off between the tribes of Issachar and Zebulon?
Of the founders of the twelve tribes, Zebulon was a ship merchant and Issachar was a Torah scholar, and in order for Issachar to support his family and Zebulon to gather merit for the afterlife, they made a trade: Zebulon would support Issachar if he could garner fifty percent of the rewards Issachar accrued with his scholarship. An agreement was reached, one that was carried down for thousands of years, and in present-day Williamsburg, the trade-off still flourishes.
Learning collectives called kollels abound in Williamsburg. The collectives are full of earnest young men bent over ancient texts, while they and their families receive a special stipend from the wealthier members of the community. Benk-kvetshers, these scholars are called sometimes, literally “bench squeezers,” because of their consistent presence on the primitive wooden benches lining the kollel buildings.
If you’re not rich, you might as well be a Talmud student. You’ll have prestige. Every young girl of marriageable age wants to be set up with a brilliant young scholar so she can brag to all her friends about what a catch she got, and so she can gather a luxurious trousseau funded by her wealthy father. Money is always paired with scholarship. So it has been for countless generations.
Zeidy is considered both a scholar and a businessman in this community. Immersed in financial reports by day and the Talmud by night, he is a jack of both trades, but is he a master as well? I don’t know much about Zeidy’s life. We may have money, but we sure don’t spend it. Bubby has been begging to change the worn blue carpet in the dining room for years now, but Zeidy insists that luxus, luxury, is not something to be enjoyed in this lifetime. “A broadened mind, not body,” says Zeidy, “is the pursuit of life. Luxury will only deaden your perceptions, numb your soul.”
Is it a luxury if it spares Bubby the difficulties involved in cleaning challah crumbs and grape juice stains embedded in the fabric? She wants hardwood floors so badly.
I wear hand-me-down clothes, while the rest of the girls at school wear the latest fashions from Friedman’s Dry Goods store. Everyone knows pleats are out, argyle is in, but by the time I get to wear it, it will be too late.
Zeidy says to bear my suffering with dignity, like a banner. “You are the chosen one,” he says, “and that is a garment more royal than any found in a dry goods store.”
Every Jewish girl, Zeidy says, is a bas melech, a daughter of a king. If your father was such an important person, Zeidy asks me, as a king, would you go around embarrassing him by wearing torn and dirty clothes? No, he pontificates, slamming his palms on the table excitedly, you would behave in a manner fit only for royalty, because the rest of the world is looking at you to show them what true majesty is all about. In the same way, Zeidy goes on to explain, we are God’s chosen people, and we must comport ourselves as would befit the children of an illustrious monarch, so as not to embarrass our true father in heaven.
Our teachers in school repeat this metaphor to us many times over. I feel tempted at times to ask Zeidy if I should run in the streets screaming like a lunatic, as would befit a daughter of my true, biological father, who walks aimlessly in stained shirts, talking to himself, but I never do, because I don’t want to see the pained look on Zeidy’s face when I remind him of his suffering. To think that Zeidy survived the war so that he could bring more Jewish children into the world, to replace some of those who were lost, and then from his own children should come his suffering!
My father wasn’t the first misfortune to befall our family, and he wasn’t the last. Only recently my uncle Shulem’s son went insane at the age of seventeen. Baruch’s nervous collapse hit Zeidy especially hard. He had been the prodigy of his family; his rabbis and teachers praised him for his outstanding Talmudic genius. By the time Baruch wa
s diagnosed with acute paranoid schizophrenia, he had lost the ability to form coherent sentences, speaking in a strange language no one could comprehend. Zeidy kept him locked up in a room in his office for months, slipping trays of food that Bubby had prepared through a little slot in the door. He didn’t want to release him, fearing the damage that could be done to our family if we had another raving lunatic roaming around Williamsburg. One night Baruch got out somehow, smashing through the door with his fists, emerging with bloody gashes on his arms. His screams were guttural; they burst endlessly out of his throat like those of a wild animal in pain. He destroyed everything he could get his hands on. They had to wrestle him down in the hallway, the paramedics, and sedate him. I watched from the upstairs landing, tears streaming down my face.
Later, when Bubby finished cleaning up the mess he had left, she sat white-faced at the kitchen table. I heard her whispering into the phone as I folded dish towels. He had defecated everywhere, leaving neat piles of stool on the carpet. My heart hurt for Bubby, who had never thought it was a good idea to keep Baruch locked up downstairs but had acquiesced like she did every time Zeidy made a unilateral decision.
Still, I understood why Zeidy had acted the way he did; in our community it was unheard of to place a mentally ill person in an institution. How could we trust an asylum run by gentiles to care for a Hasidic Jew and meet his needs? Even the insane are not exempt from the laws and customs of Judaism. In a way, Zeidy was brave to undertake the care of Baruch’s soul, even though he was ill equipped to deal with the effects of his psychosis. I felt sorry for Baruch, who would surely be locked up in a strange place that didn’t understand him, who would never be able to rejoin the only community he had ever known.
Unorthodox Page 5
