God's Ear

by Rhoda Lerman

  Most of Chaim’s court Yussel knew from Far Rockaway. Zipper Pinsky; Fifey the Kluger, which meant Fifey the Smart because he was so dumb; Johnny Atlas, which wasn’t his real name; Velvl the Shecter; Mendl Weiss from Rikers Island. Mendl had served on Rikers Island for selling hot TV’s in boxes that had no TV’s inside. But “only to goyim” was his defense, except the judge wasn’t a Jew. He was paroled early when he demanded a kosher kitchen at the jail and Corrections wouldn’t pay for it. One thing, garbage or not, Chaim’s court was strict to the letter of the law. Only when it came to anybody outside the congregation were they crooked. Yussel was outside the congregation.

  Yussel was dazzled by the silver of the crowns on the Torah, the gold embroidery on the satin covers, the gorgeous spice boxes, the Torah pointers, the menorahs. He couldn’t wait to see if the turquoise bar was really turquoise, if the leaves on the ficus trees were really silk, which would mean the trees went for three hundred bucks apiece in the Flower District, plus delivery.

  Yussel pressed a button. Electronic chimes rang the six notes of “Ain Kaloheynu.” The dogs went up an octave to the edge of the sound barrier. The davening stopped. Lights flashed on and off on the second floor, as if someone were signaling Paul Revere. Mendl, wearing a Patagonia shell of gray fleece under his crumpled black gabardine jacket and probably a bulletproof vest under his fleece shell, came to the door, looked with narrowing eyes through the glass, yelled over his shoulder to Chaim, “You want Reb Fetner?”

  “Fifteen dollars a week. Three meals on Shabbas,” Chaim yelled back.

  Yussel was out in twenty minutes. Real silk, real turquoise. Chaim must have something he gives to his congregation that they give him such gifts. Something rotten but impressive. On the way to the Arizona, Yussel passed a jackrabbit crucified on a barbedwire fence.

  “See, a sign. Out of fear and impulsive action, the rabbit traps himself. There, Yussele, is a rabbit who didn’t pay attention.”

  Yussel shrugged a shoulder halfway. “On the other hand, there’s a fence that by standing in one place, things come to it. I don’t like signs, Totte. I don’t want to live in your crazy universe.”

  “Two Jews out here in the wilderness, you should be nice to Chaim. You depend on each other.”

  “I owe him nothing.”

  “You owe every Jew, Yussele. Fetners especially owe. Didn’t I tell you already? Just as the Angel who wrestled with Jacob, Chaim comes to wrestle with you until you see the dawn. Until you see the light. Maybe that’s Chaim’s job. To get you through the night. Maybe that’s the only reason he exists—to challenge you.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I exist so he can have my SL, my blood.”

  “Cuchem! Wise guy! You think you’re not being challenged? HaShem’s putting pressure on you. Harder and harder. Measure for measure. I know how He operates. You ignore HaShem at one level, believe me He’ll get you at the next level even worse. So I’m telling you, you’re being asked to be kind to Chaim.”

  “Why doesn’t HaShem ask Chaim to be kind to me?”

  “Something in you needs correction.”

  “In me? The guy’s out for my blood. I should be kind to my own murderer? I’m only human, Totte.”

  His father found Q-Tips, cleaned out his ears, his keyholes. “Maybe that’s your problem. Maybe you’ve forgotten you’re more than human, that man is more than man. Maybe you don’t know who you are.”

  “You think I’m something else. I know who I am. I’m an insurance agent from Far Rockaway. Period.”

  His father sighed a terrible sigh, pushed his hat back, leaned against the seat, held his beard with his right hand, folded his doors. “Listen, a who-you-are story. One day to the Maggid of Trisk, your ancestor, the famous Rabbi Urula, came for Shabbas. When Reb Urula sat down with the Maggid for the evening meal on Friday night, he saw that the Maggid didn’t eat.

  “ ‘Why don’t you eat?’

  “ ‘I don’t eat because I don’t feel well.’

  “ ‘And why don’t you feel well?’

  “ ‘I don’t feel well because I don’t sleep.’

  “If it weren’t that Reb Urula was the son of the illustrious Meor Vashemesh, the Maggid of Trisk wouldn’t have even answered this much.

  “The next day at the second Shabbas meal, the Maggid didn’t eat. Reb Urula asked, ‘Why don’t you eat?’

  “They go around again with I don’t eat because I don’t feel well. I don’t feel well because I don’t sleep. So by the third meal, the Maggid still has not eaten. Reb Urula, who was after all one of the elders of his generation and deserved respect even from so famous a man as the Maggid of Trisk, was persistent. Finally the Maggid told Reb Urula the truth. And this is what he told him:

  “ ‘Long ago when I was a very little boy, my father of blessed memory woke us up and told us to get dressed warm because we were going to take a ride in the wagon into the forest. This was very strange. It was so early we knew he hadn’t even davened yet. Something very important was happening. The sun wasn’t even up yet. The forest was pitch black. Steam rose off the horses’ backsides. Frost was on everything. We drove very fast and very far into the forest, deeper and deeper. The road ended. Still we went on. Finally we came to a small hut, one room, maybe a woodcutter’s shack. My father stopped the wagon. He told us to stay in the wagon and be quiet and watch for an old man with a long white beard and when he comes we should tell him our father is waiting for him in the little hut. So my father left and went into the hut and we pulled blankets around us and huddled into the straw. We could see a little sunlight come through the pines. The sun came up higher and higher and then sure enough a wagon came into the forest and stopped behind our wagon. There was an old man with a long white beard and sad eyes. He said to us, “Children, where is your father?” ’

  “ ‘We pointed to the hut and he went into it. Now it was almost noon. The sun was overhead someplace but the forest was still dark and cold. We ate bread, cheese, waited. They were in the hut for hours. There was no sign from them, no sound. We waited some more.’

  “ ‘Finally the old man came out of the hut and walked to his wagon. His back was bent over as if he had a heavy pack. Just as he was about to climb into his wagon, he paused and gave a sigh, a terrible sigh. Then he climbed in and drove away.’

  “ ‘My father came out of the hut and took up the reins of the wagon, turned it around, and drove home very slowly. The old man with the white beard was the Messiah. My father had to tell him not to come because the generation wasn’t ready for him. From that deep sigh, I don’t sleep.’”

  Yussel’s father lifted his hat, scratched his head with both hands. “That, Yussele, that’s who you are, who we all are, from the generation that saw the Messiah and told Him the world wasn’t ready. No small potatoes. I told you this story so you too can know here in your forest, in your generation, who you are, what you can be. Maybe it will be your generation and you’ll have to tell the Messiah you aren’t ready. Maybe you’ll be ready.”

  “Yeah, yeah. He’ll tell me he has a message: Sell your kids; buy Kuwait.”

  “Why are you fighting this? Circumcise your heart, Yussel. Make a relationship with HaShem. Attach.”

  “I believe in Him. That isn’t enough?”

  “Yussele! I believe in Evel Knievel. But I don’t have a relationship with him.”

  Yussel pulled up in front of the Arizona, helped his father out. His father listed to the side with the weight of the new door, dragged a foot, worked out forward motion downhill, rotated his arms like propellers to balance himself as he climbed down the spur, collapsed at his grave. “I’ll wait here in case I have visitors.”

  Yussel’s congregation—mostly young women—was crowded into the kitchen and beyond in the social hall to meet him and help kosher the kitchen. Yussel said a sullen hello to people he knew, to people he’d never seen before, would never see again. Mostly he said hello to sneakers, hiking boots. He made sure not to smile.

  “You
want me to take your coat?”

  Yussel shook his head no, kept his coat on, nobody should think he was staying.

  The kitchen was as trim and sleek as a dining car. The stove had burned on high all night and now people cleaned white ashes from the ovens and burners. Steam from the boiling pots formed drops and slid down the windows. Babe mopped her brow, sighed, snapped orders. Yussel poured a cup of coffee, lit a cigarette. Babe told him to go outside if he had to smoke. Yussel put out his cigarette, banged around, already sore, slammed drawers, grabbed handfuls of silver, piles of pots, plunged a fire-hot brick into the boiling water, dumped in forks, knives, spoons, pots, pans, everything, swore mightily at his father. His congregation watched him, studied him, looked away when he looked back at them. They washed, dried, cringed, avoided Yussel with little steps, backward, sideward, gave one another big looks. Slotnik, tall, slouched, shook his hand, mumbled something about studying, left. Natalie stared hungrily, nodded knowingly when Yussel glanced her way. He was burning up in his coat, dying for a cigarette.

  When he finally took a break, he found his father in the pantry off the kitchen, sitting on top of boxes of noodles, sacks of brown rice, bags of potatoes. Yussel took off his coat, lit a cigarette, saw the Flower Child in the smoke.

  “Hah! Look! Mr. Lump-in-the-Pants himself. Someone should take down your pants, Yussele, and make you stand naked in front of your congregation. You, such a filthy person you are, that you should criticize me! With your thoughts? Filth! You better watch yourself about my wife, Yussele, putting such ideas into Chaim’s head. Don’t think I forget.”

  Yussel exhaled slowly. “You tell me, where does filth come from, Totte? And where do thoughts come from? And where does lust come from? I should only thank Him for good thoughts? I should only thank Him for wealth, not poverty; for health, not sickness; for life not death? He’s the One Who sets up the longing, the desire, the evil inclinations.” Yussel jerked his thumb Heavenward. “Don’t blame me. Blame Him!”

  “A little willpower goes a long way, my darling son.”

  “What good is willpower when He’s already given me diarrhea?”

  “Vey iz mir. Vey iz mir. I don’t have enough shame with a lead door? I have to have shame from my own Yussele, my blood? I should have two lead doors, maybe a ball and chain? What do you want, Yussele?”

  “I want only to be comfortable. Me and my family, period. In spite of you. In spite of everything.”

  “That’s not even Jewish, comfortable.”

  “I’m going to drive up the mountain, dip the pots and pans in a stream, finish the koshering, drop everything off back here, leave. I just want you to know. I don’t want my wife to pay the price. I don’t want my family to hate me. I don’t want my wife to leave me. I don’t want to live your life. We’ll be home in a week. You want to take a ride up the mountain?”

  “No, no. Think your filthy thoughts by yourself.”

  Somebody changed the “Hatikvah” tape to Jewish aerobics. Between beats of rock and roll, women on the tape shouted, “Oy gevalt, two-step, turn.” Anything was better than “The Gong Show” from the mountain. The rhythm speeded up the work.

  Grisha refused to help in the kitchen, sat at the bar, dealt the cards. Yussel wanted Grisha to help in the kitchen. “Who’s ahead, Grisha?”

  “Baruch HaShem, He owes me.”

  “You couldn’t talk to HaShem while you’re drying dishes?”

  Grisha grunted. “Slotnik studies. I’m studying.” And dealt another twelve piles of cards in a circle, with one in the center.

  Yussel didn’t have the time or the strength to argue. All morning he worked furiously so he could get on the road before dark, get home in the morning, finish packing, drive to Far Rockaway.

  Just before lunch, a strange car pulled up, left. He heard the little lisp. She wore her big turban like a white cloud around her head and a long white dress, loose, almost a robe. She looked like a Jamaican priestess who kills chickens and reads their guts. She herself wasn’t so extraordinary. It was the sense she had of herself—the way she walked, the way she held herself, the way she stroked herself, the softness, the juiciness of everything. Yussel felt his apron rise, smelled baby powder.

  “Man!” the Jackalope screamed like a parrot. He carried suitcases and an easel. She was planning to stay.

  Babe swooped in like the wrath of God. “What are you doing here?”

  “Who are you that I should ask your permission?”

  A door slammed. Natalie ran in, wild-eyed, arms winding up like a baseball pitcher, her face twisting into one dread mask after another. The Blondische, who was right behind her, trying to stop her, stepped between Natalie and the Flower Child, threw her arms round the Flower Child. “Don’t you lay a hand on her, Natalie!”

  “The Black Widow’s here. What are you doing here, Black Widow?” Natalie yelled. “We don’t want you here!”

  The Flower Child pushed the Blondische’s braid from her own face to answer Natalie. “I belong here.”

  “You killed him.”

  “That’s a lie, Natalie.”

  “House! Lady!” the Jackalope shouted at Natalie.

  The Blondische turned to Natalie and Babe. “Why don’t you leave her alone? It’s not her fault. She has every right and more to be here. It’s not her fault.”

  “People like you killed my husband, Natalie. If it wasn’t for people like you, he’d be here today.”

  “Like me? You killed him. You … with your … your body and your demands, your crises. You killed him. And we do not want you here!”

  “Lady!” The Jackalope screamed a parrot scream. His mother grabbed him by the arm, dragged him into the kitchen. She held her head high, but her lower lip trembled. “You can’t defend me, Yussel?”

  Yussel shrugged. He couldn’t look at her. Of course he should look at her, be kind to her, but he couldn’t. She wasn’t his problem. His mother was his problem, his own wife was his problem but not his father’s extra wife. Also she was a big girl. Also he didn’t want to have weeping women around. Also, he didn’t want a sexpot around because he couldn’t handle it, that much he’d admit. He couldn’t handle it. Hadn’t she managed for herself before she met his father? She’d manage for herself again, find her friends in San Francisco, or something. It wasn’t Yussel’s problem.

  She set a green eyedrop bottle on the table. “Chlorophyll for the altitude. It will help. And some Chinese tea for flatulence.”

  Yussel grunted, read the directions on the bottle.

  “Your father used it when he came out here.”

  “He came out here?”

  “We both did, a lot. He said it was holy land. You didn’t know that?”

  “My father was a liar.”

  “Your father loved you. He told me that many times. You must never say anything bad about him to me. I’m his widow.” On which word her voice hardened as if she’d hit a switch. “I have a role here, Yussel.”

  “We’ll have to talk about it.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. He told me I had a role here and you had a role here. He expected me to be here and I’m here. It was his wish. I’m going to sleep with my friends in their tent. My son can sleep with the men.”

  “Uh …” Yussel could feel his ears turn red. He didn’t want her around. Yussel handed the Jackalope two potatoes. He banged them together happily.

  “He’s very excited to be on a trip, to see you. He won’t be any trouble. He’ll sit for hours.”

  “Didn’t I ask you not to come?”

  The Flower Child stretched both arms out at her sides, palms up, empty, to show him she came without weapons. It was the gesture of a dog rolling over and offering up his belly. What she didn’t understand was that she was all weapon. Yussel felt very sorry for her. Just in his father’s memory he should be kind. He couldn’t. She moved closer, smiled her little smile. “My house is full of tears. Death comes up into the windows. I long for your father as a hart longs f
or a flowing stream. Here there is life. Here I have friends. Also a student of Chaim’s was bringing down meat from Kansas City and staying for Shabbas.”

  He looked at his watch. “You drove through the night? It’s forbidden to be overnight with another man, even in a car.”

  “I had my son. Nobody was alone.” She smiled, opened her eyes wide. He didn’t want her here. Maybe it was only to protect his own ass, maybe it was to protect Shoshanna, maybe it was to protect the community from the fighting, but he didn’t want her here. He didn’t care why.

  “Shoshanna’s the Rebbitzen here. There’s no place for two of you. It creates too many problems. Shoshanna wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

  Her eyes grew big with tears. He felt the lump in his stomach expanding. He couldn’t handle having her around. He felt terrible for her, but he couldn’t handle it. The tears ran down her face. She licked them up with her tongue. He just couldn’t handle it. Women. He turned his back. “It just won’t work.”

  “Look at me, Yussel. I drink my own tears like wine, Yussel. You’re my family. You’re all I have. What’s to become of me? You won’t even look at me.”

  He knew she was standing behind him, staring at his back, maybe doing her Charlie Chaplin step, her apology for any human traits she might have by mistake. Yussel wouldn’t look at her. “What do you want from me? It won’t work.”

  After she left, his father came to him. “You sure what you’re doing is okay?”

  “It’s okay with me. She’s a big girl. She’ll make a new life.”

  “You don’t think you’re kicking her out?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it, I’m kicking her out.”

  “You couldn’t let her stay and ignore her a little, try to work it out?”

  “She’s not the kind of woman you ignore.”

  His father clucked his tongue. “Listen, you’re also a big boy. You know your heart.”