by Bernard Beck
I asked him what would happen if I succeeded, and he said that that was unknown.
And so, I began to study intensely and exclusively with Reb Shmuel. Every day, from the moment he opened his store until it closed, I sat in his back room and studied. I was determined to embark, as quickly as possible, on my search for the mysterious Ein Sof—the infinite God—who is perfectly simple and infinitely complex, nothing and everything, hidden and revealed, reality and illusion, creator of man and created by man.
I was insatiable and I absorbed each of the books like a sponge. The study of Kabbalah became the center of my universe. It occupied all of my waking time. Every book that I studied opened windows into other books and other facets of Kabbalah. I steeped myself in the process and powers of meditation, and soon I was able to go deeper and deeper. I was now certain that, like the prophets of the Bible, I would soon be able to communicate directly with God.
Now, as I write this, I have stopped studying with Reb Shmuel. I no longer need his advice or his meddling or his constant warnings. I have identified the most important books, and I now have them in my apartment where I can study them freely. I have found the path to Hashem. All I need do is to follow that path to the end—to Ein Sof. I know that it will be a long and difficult journey. I know that it will take intense work and concentration, but I am confident that I can do it.
I am now on the path, and I am getting nearer and nearer. I think I can see the light. Soon, soon, with sufficient devotion, I will have achieved the ultimate. Soon. Time has lost all meaning to me . . . only the goal exists . . . only Ein Sof.
Chapter 21
In January, the second month that Harry and I had been apart, I realized that I had missed my period. Again. I had waited another month to be sure. It was now intersession in college, and I had three weeks off. My finals had ended, and I was just waiting for my grades.
On the first day of intercession, I visited the campus nurse to confirm my suspicions. The next day, I took a taxi to the rehabilitation center where my grandfather was being treated. I had been there frequently and the staff recognized me. I rushed past the reception area, barely returning their greeting, down the medicinal smelling corridor to his room. My grandfather was in bed reading, and he looked up happily when I came into the room.
“I need your advice,” I blurted out after we had finished our greeting. “It concerns Harry and me. I need to know what are the rules concerning having a family.”
“Are you and Harry getting married?” he asked.
“No, not yet,” I said somewhat annoyed. “I just need to know what a family does when a baby is coming.”
“Why do you ask?” he asked.
I didn’t want to face him so I walked over to the window and looked out at the East River hoping for some sort of inspiration, but none came. So I turned back to him, and in as matter-of-fact voice as I could, said, “I’m pregnant, and I need to know what to do.”
“Oh my God,” my grandfather breathed. “I didn’t think about that. Don’t you young people have ways of preventing that?”
“Yes, but they’re not one hundred percent reliable.” I had planned to simply discuss this with him, but I suddenly became uncontrollably angry.
“We should name the baby after you,” I snapped. “You’re the real reason I’m pregnant. What in the world were you thinking? And why did you tell me what you knew I wanted to hear rather than the right thing?”
“I did tell you the right thing!” he whined, now clearly defensive. “If I didn’t tell you that, you would never have gotten married.”
“I’m not married!” I shouted in Yiddish. And then in clear, Anglo-Saxon English, “What the hell were you thinking?”
“Listen, Ruthie,” my grandfather said in Yiddish, trying to calm me down, “your father was not going to permit you to marry Harry, no matter what he did.”
“How do you know that?”
“Ruthie, listen, I know. I have known this man since long before you were born. He promises things, and then he does whatever he wants. Look at what he did to me. He promised me that I would be a teacher in the synagogue, and in the yeshiva. But he thought that I would be too much competition for him, and so he made them erect hurdles. He always has to be in charge, and he would never allow you to marry a man that you chose. It would have to be someone that he chose for you. I was trying to save you from that.”
I stood at the side of his bed breathing hard, trying to control my anger. This man whom I had loved all my life—this man who had encouraged me to write when no one in the family supported me, this man who had helped write my book, this man who had shared his stories and his dreams and his knowledge with me—had taken advantage of our intimacy and misled me, and I was angry. But I was guilty too. I had wanted this marriage so much, and my father had put up obstacles, and maybe my grandfather was right and my father would have found another reason to block the marriage.
But the fact remained that I was pregnant. That could not be denied.
The other undeniable factor was that I could not go to Harry. He and I had made an agreement, and I was sure that if I confronted him now with my pregnancy, that he would say that my condition confirms what he had predicted.
I stood there, at the foot of my grandfather’s bed and listened with tears in my eyes. The three most important men in my life had betrayed me. Harry, by insisting on six months of celibacy to satisfy his need for proper appearances, my father, by erecting insurmountable hurdles to our marriage, and my grandfather, by giving me the worst advice.
And the strange thing about it was that they all claimed that they did it for me—that they had all made sacrifices to satisfy my needs.
“Ruthie,” my grandfather said with great compassion, “come here. I want to hold your hand, and tell you a story.”
Another fucking story? I thought to myself, but reluctantly I moved closer to the bed, reached out, and took my grandfather’s hand. He was so feeble, his hand was so thin, and he was still my grandfather, and no matter how angry I was, he was still my grandfather, and we had our own history.
“The ways of God,” he began in his storytelling voice, “are strange, and very often they are unknown to us. But God has His own plan for the universe and for each of us. We must assume that everything that happens in life is part of the grand scheme and is for the better. Sometimes the future is hard to see. Sometimes God’s plan seems cruel. But we, as humans, must accept His will.
“Ruthie, do you remember when we studied about the strong women of the Torah? One of those women, maybe the strongest of them all, was Abraham’s wife, Sarah. The Torah tells us that when she realized that she would have difficulty bearing children, she encouraged Abraham to sleep with her handmaid Hagar, so that he should have a son. That son was Ishmael. And then she had her own son, Isaac. And when the two boys grew up, Sarah was afraid that Ishmael would dominate Isaac, so she told Abraham to send Hagar and Ishmael into the wilderness. So Abraham listened to her, and he sent them out into the wilderness. This was the cruelest thing because there was nothing for them to eat in the wilderness, and they would surely have died. But God told Abraham not to worry about Hagar and Ishmael.
“In the wilderness, Hagar was worried about her son. They had run out of food and water, and Hagar did not want to see her son die, so she went some distance away and cried. And God asked her why she was crying, and she said because she was worried about Ishmael. God told Hagar not to worry, that her son would give birth to a mighty nation. And God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water, and she went, and filled a bottle with water, and gave Ishmael a drink. And God was with Ishmael, and he grew, and lived well. And, in fact, he did become the father of a great nation.
“Ruthie, the ways of God are hidden from us. We do the best we can, but in the end, we have no choice but to accept his word, and to trust that everything will work out for the best in the end.�
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My grandfather leaned back against the pillows, exhausted. I stayed with him, holding his hand, until he fell asleep. This was the last conversation I ever had with him.
I left the rehabilitation center and walked slowly, quietly, pensively across town to the subway. I knew I would have to discuss this with my parents—there was no alternative. On the train, I rehearsed what I would say and how I would say it, but when I came to my parents’ house, I felt my assumed maturity falling away. I climbed the steps that I had climbed so often as a teenager in the past. When I came into the living room, everything was as it had always been, and I was surprised. I had been expecting something different—something that would reflect how different I was now than I had been.
My mother was on the phone when I came in and she waved to me happily, surprised to see me during the week. My father was in his usual place at his desk shuffling papers, chewing on his ubiquitous cigar.
I told them everything; they didn’t ask questions. It was as if they had been expecting this news—as if their worst fears had been confirmed. I told them that Harry and I had been living together, and that now we were apart, and that I was pregnant. I told them about how Harry had been studying and how that had changed him. I told them what Harry had said, and that even though my father had said otherwise, I now suspected that the marriage would not happen. I spoke for more than an hour. Not emotionally, not pleadingly, almost like a newspaper reporter. I told them all the facts as best I could remember them, but I didn’t tell them how I felt.
When I finished, my mother went into the kitchen and returned quickly with a glass of tea.
My father spoke first. He was obviously taking charge, as he usually did.
“Don’t worry, everything will be OK, Ruthie,” he said in a syrupy tone. “There are doctors who do this sort of thing. I’m sure this can be worked out. I’ll start making some discreet calls right away. No one need know. You can stay here while we’re finding a solution. I’ll do whatever you want me to do. It will be OK. You’ll go away somewhere. We’ll get good doctors. We can figure it out. Just don’t worry. We’ll help you.”
Then he didn’t say anything, and I didn’t say anything. It was quiet—eerily quiet.
My mother was breathing heavily, taking in gulping breaths as if she couldn’t breathe. My father looked at her with concern, but her returned look was icy.
“This is all your fault,” she said to him. “You and your American ideas. ‘We want her to be a real American’ is what you said. Well, I’m not sure that having a mamzer baby is being a real American. So now, mister real American, you have destroyed two lives, your daughter’s and her baby’s. And maybe ours too.”
She gulped some tea, grimaced, and turned to me, her eyes blazing. “This is terrible,” she snapped. “You are pregnant. No man will marry you. How could you do this? Who do you think you are? A real American? Hah! Feminist equality? Hah! You don’t claim equality, you earn it! And when you have it you take care not to boast, not to make other people feel bad. I worked, I struggled, I sewed at night until my hands bled. And for what? To support a family! Sure I was equal—I could work just as hard as anyone else. But I worked harder. And I was successful, maybe too successful. Maybe if I had struggled a little more then you would appreciate what you have and not spit on it.
“Your father and I have worked very hard to give you a fine Jewish home and all the privileges we never had. You want to go to college? OK you go to college. You want to write a book? OK you write a book. You need a new dress? OK you get a new dress. Just like that! And everything you think is coming to you. We are rich, and we can afford things because we earned them. And you have the nerve to turn your back on that! You hate your beautiful clothing, you hate our ‘fancy’ furniture, you make fun of everything that we earned. Earned! Do you hear what I am saying? We earned this. And you, you were born into it. Luxury should be something you enjoy, not something you are embarrassed about.
“And now, you gave up the only thing that was yours. What man from a good family will marry you now? What are we going to do about the baby? What will everyone say? How can we show our faces in the shul again? Everyone will talk. What were you thinking? Thinking? You weren’t thinking at all. You free thinkers. Hah! You have ruined us. Ruined!
“I worked to give you every opportunity—especially the opportunity to marry someone important who can provide for you and give you the freedom to be someone, and you throw that in the trash. So now what should we do?”
My father looked up as if to say something, but my mother stopped him with a look.
“First of all, you will move back here,” she snarled. “It was a mistake to trust you to live by yourself. Your father will stop paying for your apartment, so don’t think you can go back there. You will go away somewhere to deal with the baby. We will find you a husband, and you will go out into the real world and struggle—and you will appreciate everything that you earn. You are nearly twenty-one years old. I was married when I was your age. It’s time.”
My father, sheepishly castigated and feeling embarrassed, came over to me and took my hand. We both felt awkward.
“Listen,” he said, “I know this isn’t the best time, Ruthie, but there is a man I know, he’s an older man but still much younger than me. I play pinochle with him. He has lived a rough life, but now he’s ready to settle down. He’s looking for a wife. I will call him tomorrow to make arrangements. Then I will find you a doctor, and we will do whatever is necessary.”
And then, for the first time in my life, I saw my mother cry. Right in front of everyone. She put her hands to her face, and doubled over with great, body wrenching sobs.
“Ruthie,” she said gulping air. “How could you do this? Our shaina maidel, our dream. You are so smart, so beautiful. How could you do this?”
Great sobs, gasping for air. My father went over to hold her, and she leaned her face into him.
I sat immobile on the couch, and slowly my mind began to clear. My panic had passed. I now knew what I had to do; it was suddenly obvious. I heard them speaking, but I was no longer listening.
My father knelt next to my mother, holding her face in both his hands. “Ruthie,” he said quietly, not taking his eyes off my mother, “you will stay here tonight. Tomorrow we will find a good doctor.”
“I can’t, not tonight.” I said. “I need some time. Everything has changed; everything is different. I need some time.”
“I understand,” my father said, struggling to stand up. “This is a difficult time, and we didn’t mean to press you. Take whatever time you need, think about it. I know that you will make the right decision this time. But Ruthie, don’t take too long. You’re in your third month, and we need to take care of this soon.”
With increasing clarity, I now knew what I was going to do. It was a long-term plan, and it was risky, but when I finished—when I achieved my goals—they would no longer be able to control my life. Not my father or my mother. Or my grandfather. Not even Harry. I was a woman and an author. Now I could be the bohemian I had always wanted to be. Unwanted child? Of course I wanted this child! Lots of bohemians had illegitimate children. This was my badge of courage!
Like a flash, I could see my life plan in front of me.
I stood up and slowly walked over to the chair where my mother was still sniffling. I stood above her, looking down at her. Proudly. Defiantly.
“I am a writer,” I snarled, “not your shaina maidel.”
I grabbed my coat and pocketbook and ran down the stairs before they could stop me. Out in the cold night air I felt refreshed, energized. “I can do this,” I kept repeating to myself. “I can do this, and they can’t stop me.”
I felt exhilarated, renewed, as if a great burden had been lifted from my shoulders. I had been perspiring in the house and now in the cool night I felt a chill that added a bounce to my step. I practically ran to the el
evated train. “I can do it,” I kept repeating. “I can do it.”
The train arrived just as I got to the station. Friendly and familiar, its green walls and rattan seats felt so good. I was nearly alone in the car. Fort Hamilton Parkway, Thirty-Sixth Street, Pacific Street. Change trains. It was all so familiar and comfortable, but this time it also felt new. I saw things I had never noticed before. I delighted in the squeal of the wheels on the tracks, the loud roar of the train in the tunnel, the lights dimming, blinking off and on. So exciting. So exciting! The wheels seemed to be saying, “You can do it, you can do it,” as they clicked along the tracks. And I repeated, “I can do it, I can do it, I can do it.”
West Fourth Street, Washington Square Park. So beautiful and dangerous in the dark. “I can do it, I can do it.” The express run in upper Manhattan, the stations flying by. “I can do it, I can do it.”
Finally, my apartment. I ran up the stairs, key in the lock, lights on. So beautiful, so cozy, so private. “They can’t get me here. They can’t control my life here.”
I put some water on the stove, made myself some tea, and sat down at the metal kitchen table.
I had no doubts; I didn’t need their help—any of them. After all, I reasoned, I was writing stories long before they even knew. I had written a book, and I would write another, and then another. I could go on speaking tours, give guest lectures, people would pay to hear me, artists and society people would flock to my parties. It was all so easy, so clear. My fantasy was fully renewed, but this time it was possible. This time it was possible.
I couldn’t sleep that night. Plans and images were running through my head. “Exhilarated,” I kept saying. Exhilarated—with a strong accent on the “H”!
