Sisters Weiss ~ A Novel

by Naomi Ragen

  “Maybe if we have time afterwards, we’ll stop off and get you something to wear?”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “Never mind. I do. And if you are going to be my assistant, you deserve a salary.”

  She hung her head, dwarfed, almost crushed, by her aunt’s unending kindness and generosity. What a naive, brainwashed little twit she’d been to listen to and believe all those terrible things they’d said about her aunt!

  She lugged the equipment, learning how to set it up, how to wait with endless patience until her aunt was satisfied that she had the perfect natural lighting for a particular shot, how to hurry when her aunt was rushing to capture someone or something in the passing parade of human activity. Despite the sheer hard work and the tedium, she found herself loving every moment. She felt a sudden stab of envy for her cousin.

  “Hannah’s probably done this with you a million times.”

  Rose was quiet. “Actually, Hannah … well … she wasn’t very interested in my work.”

  “How could that be? If I was your daughter, I’d make you teach me everything you know.”

  Rose smiled. “Would you now, really?”

  “I would, Aunt.”

  They took a short break for lunch in a kosher restaurant outside Chinatown.

  “You look green,” Rose told her.

  “It’s the smell of the meat!”

  “Are you sure you’re not a vegetarian?”

  “Believe me, I’m not.”

  “Maybe you have a stomach virus?”

  “I don’t have fever or any other symptoms.”

  “If you don’t feel like yourself soon, I’ll make you a doctor’s appointment. In the meantime, get some soup.”

  “Just not chicken soup!”

  After she ate, Rivka felt better, but very tired.

  “You look wasted! I think we can call it a day. But before we go, I want you to take some photos yourself.”

  Rivka protested. “No, Aunt Rose! I could drop your camera! Besides, I don’t want to waste your expensive film!”

  Rose ignored her, putting a camera strap around her neck. “There, it can’t possibly fall. And there is no film, kid. You’re thinking of the Kodak-moment fifties. Today, it’s all digital. Only crazy people like me still use film. And even die-hards like myself are secretly exploring the joys of digital photography.”

  Rivka felt herself fill with adrenaline as she held the camera in her hands.

  “This will be easy for you to use. It’s a digital automatic. The camera will adjust itself to lighting conditions. See that little screen? Just think of it as a picture frame. All you need to do is fill it with something that interests you. This was the first thing I learned about photography. I’ve never gotten better advice.”

  “Something beautiful?”

  “Not necessarily. Ugliness has equal strength in a photo, and is sometimes much more fascinating. Remind me to show you a book of Diane Arbus images when we get home. Just look around for a person, a moment, a scene that has meaning for you, something you want to rescue from oblivion in order to look at it again and again.”

  It couldn’t possibly be that easy, Rivka thought. But the camera did feel comfortable in her hands as she slid her palms around the compact metal and plastic. She looked through the lens. It was exactly as her aunt had said: an empty picture frame waiting to be filled.

  She walked down the street, losing track of time and of her tiredness, clicking away, trying to capture the moment when a baby was lifted in her mother’s arms and smiled through her tears, the moment the greengrocer’s face rose above a box of bright red tomatoes he was carrying, the expressions on the faces of two old men who turned to look at a beautiful teenage girl walking by.

  “Having fun?” Rose smiled at her.

  “It’s amazing how many things you can see through a camera lens you would never have noticed with just your eyes.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? Like carving away at life until you reveal the form and meaning inside it.”

  “Like a sculptor, right?”

  “Right!” Rose answered, impressed. “Who but Michelangelo knew there was a David trapped inside that ruined chunk of Carrara marble the church fathers were getting ready to throw away?”

  Rivka handed Rose back the camera. “Thanks so much!”

  “Why don’t you hold on to it for a while, kid?”

  “I don’t want to use it up. You might need it.”

  She laughed. “It’s impossible to ‘use it up’! It has a memory card that holds hundreds of photos.”

  “Hundreds!”

  “Yeah, and when that fills up, we’ll just download all the photos to the computer and free up the space again for hundreds more!”

  For the first time since they’d met, Rose got to see how her niece Rivka looked when she was happy. She felt her own dark place open for a moment, nourished and warmed.

  “I think we’re done for the day. The light is all wrong now. Why don’t we drop all this stuff off at the house, then go shopping for some clothes? Stores are open late tonight. Unless you’re too tired.”

  She wasn’t tired. She was exhausted. But the idea of shopping with her aunt’s credit card was too delicious. “Oh, thank you, Aunt! That would be wonderful! But I can’t go to any of the big department stores. My family shops there!”

  Later that afternoon, Rose took her to some little upscale boutiques near her studio. They were throbbing with rock music. Mannequins dressed in tiny skirts over leggings and transparent tops looked at them bewitchingly.

  “Oh, I don’t think…” Rivka shook her head.

  “Okay, there’s a Talbots near my apartment. They are very conservative, and they have a whole petite department.”

  That was better, the atmosphere dainty and subdued, and the mannequins charmingly chic. Rivka went through the racks with a practiced hand, concentrating on the merchandise on the reduced racks. But even then, she found the prices shocking.

  “Thank you very much, Aunt Rose, but it’s not shayich.”

  It had been so long since she’d heard that word, Rose chuckled. It meant “not connected to, not part of, irrelevant, a waste of time.” It was a word that peppered the sentences of ultra-Orthodox Jews in a wide variety of ways: Some things were permanently not shayich, like movie theaters. Some things were situationally not shayich, like Sephardic boys in a Hassidic groom pool. And some things were temporarily not shayich, like the present too-high prices of Talbots’ clothes, which even on sale did not begin to compare to Macy’s or Lord & Taylor’s seventy percent off with coupon sales.

  “We could get the same clothes in Borough Park for half the price!”

  “Aren’t you afraid you’ll be discovered if we go there?”

  “No, no,” she said. Her family didn’t shop in Borough Park unless a holiday or wedding was looming. Still, it was a risk. But she just couldn’t resist. She couldn’t stand overpaying.

  She took her aunt’s arm, and soon Rose found herself hurtling toward Brooklyn in the subway.

  She had not been back to such a neighborhood since she’d visited her stroke-felled grandmother in the nursing home. She looked around. It was forty years later, but nothing had changed. The same bewigged and turbaned matrons with their long-sleeved, thick-stockinged little girls looking at her suspiciously. The same men in black satin waistcoats with black hats avoiding looking in her direction at all. You were either conspicuous or unwanted. Your existence was never just accepted, unless they knew you and you were just like them. In that case, either you needed them or they needed you, and so it was worth it to be friendly.

  She bit her lip. No, that wasn’t fair. Whether they knew you personally or not, if you looked and acted the part of a member in good standing of the community, you would benefit from endless friendship and caring love from every quarter. You’d never be alone, never without help or companionship. Whatever you needed, be it food, clothing, extra chairs for Seder night, antibiotics when the dr
ugstores were closed, the community would see to it that you got it. She’d found nothing remotely similar outside the Haredi world.

  The store was a long, narrow strip stuffed with women’s clothing. Religious women pawed through the piles of clothing bearing carelessly chopped-off designer labels. They were probably designer samples, the sizes ranging from zero to four, with a rare and occasional six or eight. The prices were ridiculously low.

  “Go ahead, try something on,” Rose urged her.

  Rivka brought basketfuls of clothes into the makeshift dressing room, but soon opened the curtain wearing her old, frayed suit. “Let’s go, Aunt Rose.”

  “What! Didn’t you like anything?”

  “It’s not shayich.”

  “What’s not shayich?” she asked, beginning to hate that word.

  “New clothes, size two. I’m gaining weight so fast. I don’t know why. Nothing fits me anymore.”

  She saw there were tears in Rivka’s eyes.

  “Listen, kid, gaining weight is nothing to cry over! Otherwise, we women would be weeping nonstop until the grave! Just get a larger size. It’s not the end of the world to go from a size two to a size four!”

  “But it’s a waste of money! At the rate I’m going, I might outgrow them in a month!”

  “So, get some skirts with an elastic waistband and some peasant blouses. It’s very stylish now. I suppose I won’t be able to talk you into wearing slacks or jeans?”

  She shook her head, scandalized. “No! This is assur. ‘Women shall not wear men’s clothing.’ It’s forbidden by the Torah.”

  “Who’s talking about men’s clothing? I’m talking about slacks made especially for women.”

  “But they would be immodest, showing everything.”

  “You could buy a tight skirt that would show everything, too. I’m talking about a nice-fitting, modest pair of trousers with an elastic waistband that would leave you a little grow room. It’s what photographic assistants usually wear. With all that bending over you’ll be doing—it’s much more modest than a skirt.”

  Rivka thought about it. It was like the yogurt. Her aunt’s words made perfect sense. “But we can’t buy women’s slacks here. They don’t sell them.”

  “So, let’s go back to the subway.”

  After a hectic day, they arrived home full of packages. Rose prepared a light supper of eggs and cottage cheese and salad. Rivka made no objection to eating food cooked in questionable pans and served on suspect plates with suspicious utensils, Rose noticed. Maybe she was just overtired? Or maybe she was changing? Rose wondered how she felt about that.

  “It’s been a long day, kid. Go take a rest. I’ll take care of the dishes.”

  “No, let me, Aunt! And thank you. For everything.”

  “Thank you, for all your help.”

  Rose decided to give in, tucking her legs comfortably beneath her on the sofa and opening the day’s mail. She sliced through the most delicious envelopes first. Invitations to showings, invitations to speak, and a proposal to do a retrospective at a photography museum in Paris!

  She stretched out, flinging her arm across her eyes. Her usual pleasure and excitement in all these things seemed diminished somehow. All she could think about was Rivka.

  What, she thought, if the situation had been reversed? If Hannah had decided to leave her life and her family and had shown up in Williamsburg at her sister Pearl’s looking for a life as a newly born Jew? What if Pearl had not only taken her in, but had kept it a secret, never once calling to inform her where her daughter was staying and that she was all right? It was unthinkable! No, this had to end. As much as she’d come to like the girl, Rivka couldn’t stay with her if she wasn’t going to call her family. She felt guilty she hadn’t thought of all this immediately. Obviously, her mind had blocked it out for good reasons. Calling her family with this news was definitely going to bring them roaring back into her life. But since her home address and phone number were unlisted, they’d only have access to her gallery. Sheena, her assistant, was careful to buzz in only people she knew.

  There was nothing else to be done. She’d have to take a chance, not only for her own conscience, but for her niece’s sake as well. Perhaps there was something there that was still salvageable? Oddly, mixed in with the dread, she experienced a strange sense of excitement and curiousity at the idea of making contact with her family after almost forty years. Her friend and childhood companion, her little sister. Pearl.

  *

  Rivka shed her sweaty clothes, taking a long shower. Her stomach was definitely a tiny bit more rounded now than it had been yesterday or the week before. She would have to watch what she ate from now on. Those two weeks she had been homeless and not eating regularly had left her constantly hungry. She’d eaten all the wrong foods: rye bread and knishes and kishke and kasha varnishkes and soda and cake. It wasn’t healthy. It was no wonder she was throwing up every morning and every evening. She felt nauseous almost all the time.

  She thought of all her nice new clothes. She would take her shower and then try them all on, even the pants. The idea of putting on pants was thrilling and dangerous. But they were pants made especially for women, as her aunt pointed out, and they covered her legs much more fully than even the most opaque tights, so why was that immodest?

  Thinking for herself about religious issues was a new experience for Rivka. It was amazing the conclusions one could come to if you opened your mind.

  Life was going to be wonderful, wonderful.

  32

  The next morning, Rose waited for Rivka at the breakfast table. By nine, she gave up.

  “Rivka? Can I come in?”

  “Sure, Aunt Rose.”

  She was sitting up in bed wearing one of her new outfits, the tears staining her face, but no longer falling in fresh streams.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know, Aunt Rose. I don’t feel good. Not sick exactly, just so strange.”

  “Is it that same stomach flu?” Rose asked, alarmed. “It’s gone on much too long! You need to see a doctor, today. I’m sorry we waited.”

  “No, no, it’s not necessary.”

  Rose looked at her strangely. “Are you afraid of doctors, Rivka?”

  She was afraid of something, Rivka thought, but couldn’t decide what. “No. It’s just, I don’t like to make a tzimmis over nothing, to waste money…”

  “Let me worry about that, will you? So long as you’re under my roof, you must let me take care of you as best I can.”

  Rivka gave in, relieved. “Thank you, Aunt Rose.”

  “But that’s not the reason I came in here. You look very nice, by the way. Stand up, let me see.”

  Rivka got up dutifully.

  “Now turn around slowly.”

  What a transformation, Rose thought, pleasantly surprised. She was wearing jeans and a pretty green and pink blouse. She looked like one of Hannah’s young college friends. Her parents probably wouldn’t recognize her. They’d be furious.

  “Beautiful! Now come into the living room and sit down. There is something we need to discuss.”

  Rivka followed her, tense and alert.

  Rose took a deep breath. “Rivka, I’ve been thinking about this all night. You really must speak to your parents.”

  Her eyes went wide with alarm. “No, no!” She shook her head.

  “What’s so terrible? Explain it to me.”

  “But you, Aunt Rose, of everyone should understand by yourself! Hannah didn’t. The day I ran away, she also wanted me to call them. I left Hannah’s when my friend in Israel told me they knew I wasn’t there. I didn’t want them coming to bother her. Two weeks it only took them to send someone to Israel to check out the story, to find out the truth. They’re looking for me all over, all the time, to make me go back and get married!”

  Rose sighed. “I do understand, believe me! And as long as you are here with me, I promise I won’t let anyone force you to do anything you don’t want to. But you
have to try to understand me, Rivka. Your mother is my little sister. I can’t do this to her, and I know she would never do anything violent or hurtful to you.” Even as the words left her mouth, she felt uncomfortable. It had been so many years. What did she really know about Pearl, who she had become or what kind of a man she had married?

  “But what if they send people … threaten you?”

  “Don’t think I haven’t thought about that. Whatever happens, I promise to stand by you, Rivka. But however they might react, it’s inhuman for us to let your parents worry like this any longer. If it was Hannah who had run away, I’d be crazy sick with worry.”

  If she had been hoping to instill guilt or conscience pangs in the girl, she had failed miserably, Rose realized as the girl shook her head adamantly. “Never! Please don’t make me!”

  “Do you want me to talk to them for you?”

  Rivka looked up with sudden hope. “Would you, please, Aunt Rose?”

  Against all her experiences of the past, all her reasonable desires to distance herself as much as possible from this mess, Rose found herself agreeing. It was as painful a task as she could have imagined for herself, but exhilarating, too. After all these years …

  She picked up the phone. It rang four times, each unanswered sound stretching her nerves to the breaking point. Finally, someone picked up.

  “Hello? Is that you, Pearl? This is your sister, Rose.”

  There was a long pause where only the sound of breath coming in short, heavy gasps was audible.

  Finally, she heard her sister say: “Shoshi!”

  “No one has called me that for forty years,” she whispered, tears coming to her eyes. “I’m so happy to hear your voice, Pearl.”

  “Is everything all right? Has something happened to you?”

  “No, not to me or mine. It’s about your daughter, Rivka.”

  There was a stunned silence.

  “What do you have to do with my Rivkaleh?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Well, actually, many things, but don’t worry; she’s well.” Rose coughed, beginning to feel serious misgivings.