by Naomi Ragen
“Get out before I throw you out!”
Shlomie took his tallis, tefillin, and siddur off the chair and left. She locked the door behind him.
* * *
Of course, he headed straight to Beit Shemesh Heights, straight to the home of the Messiah. It was almost midnight when he arrived. He was pleased to see a light still shone in the window.
Kuni Batlan opened the door. Shlomie could smell the alcohol on his breath as he shouted, “Ah freilichen Purim,” clapping Shlomie on the shoulder so hard it hurt. Batlan was drunk, Shlomie realized as he followed him inside. There was no sign of Ruth Shem Tov or the children, but Shmaya Hod and Yissaschar Goldschmidt were there, their heads lolling to one side or another as they lifted glasses of arak and vodka to their wet lips while Shem Tov, the Messiah, sat in his accustomed place at the table’s head, watching them in amusement and contempt.
I am also drunk, Shlomie realized, sliding into a chair barely a moment before his legs gave out beneath him. And I drove all the way here that way. He found this laughable. Although he hadn’t dared agree with Duvie in front of Daniella, he thought Duvie was right: Purim was the time to get roaring drunk. It was a mitzvah.
The group welcomed Shlomie loudly and enthusiastically. Soon the noise elicited a child’s cries that came floating down the steps leading to the upstairs bedrooms. Following Shem Tov’s lead, everyone ignored it, feeling no need to lower their voices. Batlan poured Shlomie a tall glass of arak.
He waved it away. “She’s kicked me out. My wife, Daniella, has kicked me out of my own house!” he wailed.
He thought he saw a flash of contempt and amusement flit across the Messiah’s face. But it was just the drink, he assured himself. He could not be seeing straight. When he looked again, the Messiah was peering into his troubled, frightened eyes with compassion. “What shall we tell our friend here, eh?” Shem Tov said, turning to Batlan, Hod, and Goldschmidt.
“As it is written: ‘A man’s enemies are the women in his household,’” said Batlan.
Shlomie looked at him, dumbfounded. What could that possibly mean? Yet, all the others were smiling and nodding.
“‘Better to dwell on the corner of the roof than with a quarrelsome woman,’” chimed in Hod.
“‘A quarrelsome woman is like a miserable drizzle on a wet day,’” agreed Goldschmidt.
“‘Why is she called woman? Because she is woe!’” Batlan laughed.
Shem Tov smashed his closed fist onto the table. “Silence!” he shouted, and they cowered in fright, their laughter gone. “Is that any way to treat our brother in his sorrow?” He turned to Shlomie, taking his shaking hands into his own. “Women are the source of everything; as it is written: ‘Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain, but a God-fearing woman is to be praised.’ And Daniella is surely a God-fearing woman. If she is angry at you, there must be a reason.”
“She says I am never home. She cannot manage the children alone. She says Duvie will become a rebellious son because of me!”
Shem Tov searched thoughtfully through his beard. He put his arm around Shlomie. “My friend, you must placate your wife. Tell her you are sorry.”
“He should apologize?” Batlan shouted indignantly.
“‘When Eve was made, so was Satan!’” Goldschmidt quoted, taking Batlan’s side.
“‘Give me any ill but the heart’s ill, any wickedness but woman’s!’” put in Hod.
Shem Tov gave them a withering look and they immediately fell into silence. “Tell your wife you will now study at home.”
“What!” Hod stood up.
“We will all go to Shlomie’s home every day to study, so that there may be domestic bliss between him and his wife, which is the most important thing in the world. As it is written: ‘So great is peace that God’s name is Shalom, and all blessings are held within it.’”
“Rebbe, Rebbe, how can I ever thank you!” Shlomie cried, kneeling before him, kissing his hand with wet, sloppy kisses, overcome with joy.
“Do not thank me,” Shem Tov replied, removing his hand as quickly as possible and wiping it off with a napkin. “Go, lay down on the couch, and return to your wife in the morning.”
He did as he was told.
27
Daniella took him back without much argument after a sleepless night wondering what would become of her as a divorced woman, the ultimate scarlet letter of failure and disgrace in their community; wondering how she was going to manage a household of seven children on her own, even though she was basically doing that already. Still, on the rare occasions she did see him, Shlomie was someone to talk to, someone to listen to her. And the children adored him.
She tried to widen their circle of friends by inviting neighbors and synagogue acquaintances over for festive meals on Friday night and Sabbath afternoon. But she could see people were put off by Shlomie and intimidated by their fine china and beautiful crystal. She was not surprised when they didn’t reciprocate.
Determined to break the cycle of her loneliness, Daniella hired baby-sitters so she could get out of the house, attend exercise classes, listen to lectures, go to women-only folk dancing sessions. But often she found herself too exhausted to enjoy these outings. By the time she helped the older children with their homework, finished cooking and serving dinner, and gave baths to the youngest, all she wanted was to crash into bed along with them. By ten, she was good for nothing more than crawling into bed with a magazine or a good book. Most of the time, she never actually got to read, her eyes drooping closed from exhaustion within moments of hitting the pillow.
The isolation wore on her. She was ambivalent about Shem Tov and his students setting up shop in their home every night. On the one hand, it meant she was sure to see Shlomie. But on the other, turning her home over to strangers felt like an intrusion, a lessening of their private space.
Night after night they trooped in, somber and pious, like people paying a shiva call. With a clear sense of entitlement, they commandeered her living and dining rooms, Shem Tov seating himself unapologetically at the head of their dining table in her husband’s accustomed place. Often, it felt more like a home invasion than hosting invited guests. Still, she felt powerless to stop it. What could she do? Embarrass her husband by telling them they weren’t welcome? Refuse outright to open her home to a Torah learning group, thus calling down unbridled scorn and condemnation on her head as an uncharitable woman? To step forward and say anything at all would be to brand herself as wanton, arrogant, and quarrelsome, the Talmud’s classic definition of a worthless woman. To be devout and respectable, the only choice open to her was silence.
And so once again, as with Amos, she brought out her china cups and plates of homemade cakes, laying them silently on the table, responding to polite murmurs of thanks with a weak smile as she quickly and silently withdrew into the kitchen. There she sat, folding laundry, straining to catch bits and pieces of the men’s learned discussions, trying to discover what it was that had transformed her familiar Shlomie into a stranger.
As she listened, she began to realize this was not the usual study of kabbalah, which sought to explain the nature of God and the universe through mystical connections and meditation.
“We must look beyond our senses, otherwise our growth is stunted; we are retarded spiritually from the greater spectrum of reality,” Shem Tov told them. Then he suddenly lowered his voice almost to a whisper. They all leaned in, straining to hear: “There is a sixth sense, a wondrous ability locked inside us that helps us to be aware of the non-human creatures that live beside us, unseen but not unfelt.”
Daniella shifted uncomfortably.
“Those of us whose minds have been allowed to expand beyond their spiritual straitjackets feel their presence strongly.” He leaned forward, raising his voice. “I am talking about spirits—angels and their counterparts, demons. They are real and they can be spoken to, just as I am speaking to you.”
Now she leaned back, unconsciously distancing herself from t
his information, her mouth falling open, her stomach queasy. She looked around to see if anyone else was uncomfortable, but all she saw were the rapt faces of true believers, drinking in the words like Coca-Cola.
“In our unenlightened states, most of us are mentally incapable of communicating with them. But only because we don’t allow ourselves to experience this. We are terrified of this reality. But if you let go of your resistance, you will quickly understand there is more in the universe than our human brains can process. There is a truth that must be felt, not understood. Our brains can’t know everything, but our souls can.
“People that allow themselves to do this rise to a level in which they can command angels to do their will! They can demonstrate powers that will fill others with awe and wonderment. Such people are called Masters of the Good Name. Our prophets, our sages, the Geonim of the Talmud, were all Masters of the Good Name.”
Daniella sat back, her mind in turmoil. Could she accept this? Was this the logical next step in her spiritual growth, the expansion of her mind, which she’d begun with Amos? Was it possible to speak matter-of-factly about angels and demons and magical incantations? Or was it black magic and witchcraft, activities—if she remembered correctly from her yeshiva days—strictly forbidden by the Torah and even punishable by death?
One night after they’d gone, she confronted her husband. “What are you doing with this, Shlomie?”
He seemed confused. “What do you mean?”
“Doesn’t God say in the Torah, Parshat Kedoshim: ‘Don’t turn to sorcerers or spirits to be defiled by them’? Isn’t magic forbidden and aren’t sorcerers condemned to death by stoning, along with those who consult them? This can’t be right!”
He was shocked at the attack. “Are you calling the Messiah a sorcerer?”
Put this way, it startled her. She thought Shem Tov was a wonderful mentor, someone who had brought good into their lives, who had actually saved Amalya from terrible harm. But why did one need to put intermediaries, however pious and devout, between oneself and God? Wasn’t that the essence of idol worship, the Golden Calf? “I sit in the kitchen night after night, listening to you talk. Magic amulets and magic incantations and calling on angels? You’re not talking to God; you’re talking to the devil.”
“You are so confused, Daniella! So very wrong! What we do is the height of holiness. You are a woman, you just don’t understand, you aren’t on a level to understand, not yet.”
“Don’t give me that ‘you’re a woman’ baloney,” she spit out venomously. “I was in medical school while you were teaching campers how to dance the hora.”
In the past, he would have been devastated and furious at such an attack. Instead, he felt a strange kind of superiority over her that had previously always eluded him. Her rich family, her excellent high school grades that had earned her early admission into a prestigious college, the fact that she had been a pre-med student, had always been there between them. But now, after four years with Shem Tov, he knew that none of that mattered. She was mired in the lower worlds, hopelessly ignorant.
The first chance he got, he told Shem Tov everything she’d said. The Messiah looked at him wordlessly, then looked away.
The next night before starting class, Shem Tov walked into the kitchen.
Daniella looked up, startled. He had never sought her out before. “Can I get you something, Rebbe?” she asked, blushing.
Shem Tov smiled deeply and intimately into her eyes, as if they were alone together in the universe, as if Shlomie didn’t exist. She found herself unable to breathe, unable to turn away. He spoke softly, as if every word was a great secret addressed to her and her alone: “Your husband told me you had a conversation in which you expressed your unhappiness with him and with me.”
She looked down, mortified. “It was a private conversation between husband and wife. He had no right to share it with anyone.”
“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps he had no right. And perhaps if he was on a higher level, he would also have no need. He could have answered your questions and doubts himself. But we both know what level Shlomie is on.”
It made her sick to hear him say this. Still, it was the truth. She would have respected him less for a comforting lie.
“Do you believe in God?” he asked suddenly.
“Of course.”
He nodded approvingly. “Very good. Do you pray to God?”
“Of course, every day!”
“Excellent. Then it’s the same thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you are sick, do you go to a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Good. A doctor is God’s servant, His messenger. There are physical messengers, like doctors, and spiritual messengers, like tzaddikim. When you say you don’t understand why your husband needs a tzaddik to intervene between him and God, what you are saying is you don’t believe in God’s emissaries. You don’t believe in Abraham, in Moses, in King David. It is a deep lack of belief that leads you to this. It’s no less than idol worship.”
She inhaled deeply, devastated.
“You say that you pray. But do you really? A person who truly prays, and is not just mouthing words, talking to his own selfishness, his own ego, feels the presence of godly messengers from higher worlds all around him.” He suddenly stopped, looking piercingly into her eyes. “The real reason that you object to the idea of all these things is that deep down you reject God Himself.”
She felt her heart sink, horrified. “No, no…”
He persisted, more forcefully. “The real reason that a person refuses to submit himself to the words of a tzaddik, to a person who is on a higher level than himself, is that he refuses to submit himself to God.”
“All I … all I meant is that I talk to God myself. I don’t need anyone in between us! I don’t understand why Shlomie thinks he does.”
He shook his head sadly. “Of course, it is better to talk to God yourself. But sometimes, a person doesn’t feel able. They need help. Like Shlomie.”
“I talk to God all the time,” she insisted truthfully.
“Do you? And does He listen to you? Are you filled with His blessings? Do you have the life you really want?”
She fell silent, filled with the misery she now recognized as living a life she didn’t want at all, a husband she had no real connection with, her troubled children. She had chosen the life of a mother, but she was failing. She thought of Duvie, his failures in school, his rebelliousness. Her children would grow into people without faith, without character, who would live miserable lives. She prayed so hard, all the time, but God didn’t seem to be listening.
“I need help, too,” she finally whispered.
“You can only get help if you agree to submit. You’re a stubborn person, and that is why it is hard for you to submit yourself to God’s will. You don’t believe in God, not really, and this is the way it reveals itself. If you believed that God was involved in your life every minute of every day, in everything you do, you’d understand that every moment angels and tzaddikim are being sent to you by Him as the answers to your prayers. If only you would be willing to submit yourself to God the way you are willing to submit yourself to a doctor. Let Him heal you.”
She looked up at him, touched by a sudden revelation. Perhaps he had been sent to her by God. Perhaps he was the answer to her prayers! “Please forgive me, Rebbe!”
He smiled sadly. “There is nothing to forgive. If practiced by the impure, those who are not holy enough to strip away the evil that surrounds magic, it is black magic and absolutely forbidden. Only the very few are allowed to delve deeper, special souls who have reached the highest level of wisdom and purity required to crack open the black shell and reach the purity within.
“You say you were never taught these things by your rabbis in yeshiva,” Shem Tov continued. “Either it is because they did not know, or they understood that their students were too young to understand. The Talmud itself permits the use of the
mystical names of God, the invocation of angels and demons. As the sainted Rav Moshe Isserles wrote, ‘Such deeds might seem strange in appearance, but the Kabbalist only brings out the true, inner nature of things as God created them, to harness the infinite energies of the universe to better serve God.’” He looked deeply into her eyes. “Do you understand now, Mrs. Goodman?”
“Yes, Rebbe.” She nodded gratefully, hardly having understood a single word, simply relieved he wasn’t angry. “Please forgive me. And thank you for your patience and understanding. For trying to help our family.”
He nodded, satisfied. “You are a pure, God-fearing, intelligent woman with deep spiritual values. I would be surprised if you did not question what you hear us saying in the next room! Of course these ideas must seem strange, as it does to all devout Jews before they are fully initiated into the secret knowledge.”
She searched his eyes. They were those of a kindly father, the eyes of the wisest, best teacher you had ever had, the eyes of a rebbe who was the exemplar of benevolence and goodness, a living example of all that could be achieved by mortal man. But then, startlingly, and to her great shock, even as she looked, they began to change.
But it could not be!
She blushed violently at the profane thoughts going through her head, which disgusted her. She felt as if he were physically caressing her. She lowered her eyes in confusion.
“Please, Mrs. Goodman, join us at the table whenever you like. You are most welcome. And feel free to ask questions. He who is ashamed to ask can never learn,” he added with avuncular politeness.
“Thank you,” she whispered, afraid to look at him again, her stomach churning.
She did not take him up on his offer, remaining in the kitchen whenever classes were held in her home. But even from there she could feel the waves of energy aimed in her direction, emanating from Shem Tov, enveloping her in their spell. She found herself listening carefully, suddenly eager to be convinced. Who would not be? To learn techniques for acquiring the hidden power of the universe? To learn how to affect and influence the higher spheres, to bring them down to the world? She, who was so helpless, who couldn’t control her own husband or her children?
