Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale

by Andrew Kane

  The Eisenmans had even given him and his mother their new address, and had encouraged them to visit. He had always liked the Eisenmans, and had been thinking of perhaps dropping in on them. He reached into his pocket and removed the crumpled paper on which he had written their address earlier that morning, and stared at it. He didn’t know why, but he eventually released his grasp and let it fly away.

  It was then that she tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around, and his heart fell. Fifteen months, and she hadn’t changed a bit.

  “Hi,” she said. “Sorry I’m late, the train was slow.”

  “It happens.”

  “How are you?”

  Joshua knew that this was one of those rare times in his life when that question was genuine. “Pretty good, and you?”

  She shrugged.

  “Come,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulder, “let’s walk.”

  She walked beside him, allowing him to hold her. This far from Crown Heights, she seemed comfortable no one would recognize her. Joshua realized that was why she had chosen this place.

  They sauntered along the boardwalk in silence for a few minutes, then she stopped, turned to him, and began to cry. “Oh Joshua, I don’t know what to do.”

  “About what?”

  “About Binny. And me.” Hesitant.

  “What about Binny and you?”

  “We’re having a problem, a big problem.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “Look at me.” She stepped back and postured herself.

  “Yes?” God, she’s gorgeous.

  “Don’t you see?”

  “See what?”

  “Joshua, look at me!” She put both her hands on her stomach.

  “You’re pregnant?”

  She laughed, almost choking on her tears.

  “What?”

  “I’m not pregnant!”

  “Oh.” He felt stupid, realizing he should have known that a Hasidic woman ought to be pregnant after over a year of marriage.

  There was a long silence.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be bothering you with this,” she said.

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “I guess I just needed someone to talk to, someone with a man’s perspective. I talked to Esther, and she suggested seeing a doctor.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I did. I called Doctor Schiffman, and she gave me the name of a gynecologist at the hospital, a Doctor Silver. I went and he examined me.”

  “And?”

  “And, I’m okay, as far as he can tell.”

  “Has Binny seen a doctor?”

  “That’s what Doctor Silver asked.”

  “And?”

  “And, Binny would never see a doctor. He believes it’s all in God’s hands. So does my father, I imagine. That’s why you’re the only one I could turn to.”

  Oh, Joshua said to himself.

  “What do you think I should do?” she asked.

  “I think you need to convince Binny to see a doctor.”

  “But how?”

  None of this was easy for Joshua, for he really wanted to say, run away with me! He would gladly have given her plenty of children. “Rachel, I don’t think I’m the right person to be talking to about this…”

  “You’re right, Joshua, I shouldn’t have…”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Come, let’s walk,” she said, and this time she held his arm.

  They strolled a bit farther. A smile came to her face. “I miss you,” she said.

  “I miss you too.”

  “I guess I just wanted to see you. I suppose it was selfish of me, but I needed to know that you still care.”

  He stopped, turned to her, put his hand on her cheek, and said, “I do. I always will.”

  “I needed to know.”

  “Don’t ever doubt it.”

  They walked on, his arm around her shoulder, in silence, feeling safe in this place, so far from the world that divided them. They felt good being together, even for a short while, untouched by complication and intrusion. But, in truth, they weren’t safe at all. For somewhere, in the shadow of a nearby shop, Paul Sims stood, observing their every move.

  CHAPTER 33

  Doctor Marcia Schiffman phoned Rachel to find out how the visit with Doctor Silver went. Upon hearing what the gynecologist had said, Schiffman responded, “Well, there’s one other possibility as well.”

  “What’s that?” Rachel asked, hoping it might mean Binny wouldn’t have to see a doctor.

  “I don’t know how to say this, Rachel, but it could be that the problem you and Binny are having isn’t medical.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is—and I don’t understand it completely—but sometimes couples have difficulty getting pregnant because of psychological reasons.”

  “You mean because they don’t really want to?”

  “No, just the opposite. I mean because they want it too much. It creates a lot of tension and anxiety, which somehow affects the reproductive process.”

  Rachel took a moment to consider the point. “What do you suggest?” she asked.

  “To put it simply, Rachel, and at the risk of sounding crass, you need to stop thinking about getting pregnant, and start thinking about having sex for fun!”

  “But I used to enjoy being with Binny. I didn’t always do it just for children.” Defensive.

  “Yes, but somewhere along the line that stopped, didn’t it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Well, that’s what you should work on, if you want my advice. Try it this way for a few more months and let’s see what happens. There’s always time for Binny to see a doctor, but if you do this, it may not be necessary.”

  That very night, Rachel waited up for her husband in bed, ready to implement Marcia Schiffman’s advice. She had to admit, she felt rather sexy in the red satin nightgown Esther had given her at her bridal shower, the same one she had worn on her wedding night.

  Binny arrived home late, as was his recent habit. She heard him come through the front door, and then heard him rummaging through the refrigerator. For all she knew, it would be hours before he’d make an appearance in the bedroom, if at all. There had been more than one occasion on which she had found him in the morning, sleeping at his desk in the study. Not tonight, she told herself, getting out of bed.

  She turned on the light and scrutinized herself in the mirror, teasing her hair, and adjusting her gown to make sure it hugged her body perfectly. She went down the stairs, into the kitchen, and sneaked up behind him.

  “Binny,” she said softly.

  He turned around and looked at her. Instantly, a glass filled with milk fell from his hand and shattered on the floor. “Oh my,” he said nervously, noting the mess he’d made.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said, walking over to him, pressing her body against him and pushing her thigh into his groin. She moved her hands up his chest and passionately kissed his lips.

  It was a long kiss, and when he finally came up for air, he said, “Rachel, what’s gotten into you?”

  “Come, let me show you,” she said, taking his hand and leading him from the kitchen.

  It was a torrid evening, surpassing anything either of them had ever imagined. Rachel delayed actual intercourse, trying other tricks she’d read or heard about instead. She explored every crevice of his body, and spoke to him softly of her desires. After an hour, he was begging to have her, and when she finally gave herself, cries of ecstasy echoed through the house.

  When it was over, they lay together, kissing and holding one another. She touched him again, enticed him and tortured him again. He began to kiss her all over, and made love to her a second time. Afterwards, they rested for a while, but only for a while.

  In the beginning of their marriage, they had often made love twice in an evening. It had always been wonderful, but nothing like this. The third time was novel, and the mixture of pleasure and
pain accompanying their final release took them beyond paradise. Rachel could swear she hadn’t had a single thought of getting pregnant. But now, lying apart, fading off to sleep, she couldn’t help but believe that if this night didn’t bring a child, nothing would.

  Paul Sims sat beside his baby daughter’s crib, watching her sleep, pondering what he had seen a few days earlier. Even now, during his most blissful of moments, he couldn’t erase the image from his mind. He felt embarrassed for having followed Rachel, but mostly he was enraged. He was confused about what to do with what he knew.

  He had much to be thankful for these days. God had given him a wondrous gift, a soft, precious child with the face of an angel. He was going to be good to her in every way. She would have all the love of which he had felt deprived.

  They had named her Sheindy, after his paternal grandmother, Sheindle Simenovitz, who had died just a few months earlier. He had always been fond of his grandmother, the only person who knew how to put Alfred in his place, and the only one who was proud of Paul’s decision to attend yeshiva. Now, he had another Sheindle to make proud.

  It was late in the evening. Chava was asleep in the bedroom. It had been six weeks since she’d given birth and she was still exhausted. Paul frequently sat up, watching Sheindy, still plagued by an inability to sleep.

  He envied the way Chava slept, soundly and undisturbed. He knew she earned it, taking care of the baby all day while he studied in the yeshiva. Thank God, Rav Schachter had convinced his father to help financially, so he could continue studying for at least another year. He was concerned about eventually having to find a job, for he knew he didn’t have any skills.

  He figured he could always work for his father, a daunting prospect indeed. He would write to the Rebbe to seek council when the time came; there was no need to think about it now.

  His thoughts returned to Rachel’s tryst with Joshua. A few days had passed, yet he hadn’t told a soul. God works in mysterious ways, he mused; after all, what were the chances of discovering something like that?

  He had been on his way to the yeshiva the morning he saw Rachel heading toward the train. He was across the street, and hid himself from her view. She was walking rather quickly, turning around frequently, as if looking to see if anybody was following her. He was struck by this, and wondered if she was up to something sneaky. He had always suspected her as a person with secrets, he had just known it, so he decided to follow, to see where fate might lead. A missed day in yeshiva seemed trivial at the time.

  He rode in the car behind hers, standing near the door, watching for when she disembarked. He followed her through the streets of Brighton, staying far enough behind to remain unseen. It was an unlikely place for her to be; he was sure his efforts would prove fruitful.

  His curiosity peaked as she climbed the ramp to the boardwalk; his heart pounded as he watched her embrace the black man. And then he saw the black man’s face.

  He had heard about Joshua’s rescue of Rachel and Esther a few years earlier, and had known that Joshua had been a guest at Rachel’s wedding. But this was unfathomable.

  His mind turned, once again, to his little Sheindy. She slept soundly, her breathing heavy, as if she were sucking in every ounce of life. It felt strange being a parent, the responsibility, the angst, the joy. He wondered what his baby would grow up to be like, what kind of man she would marry, what sort of life lay ahead for her. And he remembered how Rabbi Weissman used to talk about Rachel. It seemed so long ago. Pleasant memories, painful memories; for him, the past was always confusing.

  He realized that what he knew would destroy the rabbi, and that was something he didn’t want. Unclear of his religious obligation—whether Jewish law required him to tell the husband or not—he was, however, certain of the danger in asking the question. For he would most definitely be pressured to reveal the reason for his query. So for now his conundrum would have to remain unresolved.

  For now.

  One Friday afternoon, Binny Frankel arrived home just before candle lighting. He had been delayed in the yeshiva because of an argument with another student concerning the interpretation of a difficult Talmudic passage. He felt bad for his tardiness. Lately, he’d been spending more time around the house with Rachel, and had been making a point to arrive early on Friday to help with the pre-Sabbath chores.

  As he entered the house, he was immediately captured by the Shabbosdik aromas—home baked challah, chicken soup, potato kugel, gefilte fish, and a marinated brisket, the recipe for which his mother-in-law had generously bequeathed to his wife. It was a typical Friday night menu in the Frankel home, nothing out of the ordinary.

  “Rachel,” he called as he hung his coat in the foyer closet.

  “In here,” she answered from the kitchen.

  He walked into the kitchen and saw the candles, already placed in the candelabra, waiting to be kindled. He felt even worse, for it was he who customarily set up the Sabbath candles for Rachel to light; it was the husband’s job, a sign of his partaking in the preparation for the Sabbath.

  “Sorry I’m so late,” he offered, looking as disappointed as he sounded.

  She turned to greet him with an unexpected smile. “That’s okay,” she answered, “sometimes being late can be a good thing.”

  He gazed at her curiously, catching the gleam in her eye. She was not one to speak in riddles.

  “You mean you’re…”

  “I think.”

  Neither of them wanted to actually say the word, for fear of casting an ayin hara, an evil eye, on such a delicate matter.

  “I’m pretty sure,” Rachel added. “It’s been a few days.”

  Binny crossed the room with open arms. Rachel broke into tears at his touch. “I didn’t want to tell you until I knew,” she said, crying and laughing at once.

  “I love you,” he replied softly, running his hands through her hair.

  “I love you too,” she answered, believing her own words. I do love him, she told herself, as if she needed convincing. I will love him, and our child, and our family. I will love my life.

  “Oh my,” she exclaimed as she jumped away, “it’s time to light.”

  It was actually a few minutes past the time, but neither noticed. Binny ignored the clock and watched her kindle the candles, wave her hands over them, and bestow blessings of peace for their home, observing intently as if for the very first time.

  He took a quick shower before heading to shul. He rarely took advantage of the legal dictum allowing men an additional eighteen minutes after candle-lighting to prepare for the Sabbath. He was uncomfortable with the dispensation, regarding it as proper for husband and wife to start the Sabbath together. But tonight there had been unforeseen circumstances, wonderful circumstances. He could make exceptions; he could be late for shul. Nothing would bother him.

  He stood in the shower, warm sprays of water and rising steam easing the day’s tensions. An indulgence, he thought, while pondering his new fortune. His wife was pregnant, and because of that she would be permitted to him without interruption until the baby was born. He would start tonight, on Shabbos, when it was a double mitzvah. He would make burning love to her—just for the fun of it.

  He began to hum one of his favorite melodies. He only knew Hasidic tunes, and it was expressly forbidden to sing them in the shower. Singing was a sacred rite, a form of prayer and supplication. To perform such an act in the bathroom was sacrilege, but he couldn’t help himself. He needed to sing.

  CHAPTER 34

  “The Jews are not our friends. They pretend to be. They marched with Doctor King and started their Anti Defamation League—which they say will help us—but all this was rooted in self interest. The Jews stood by us in the South only because they themselves are afraid of the Klan; they themselves are scared of persecution and prejudice, not because they give a damn about the black man.

  “Take a good look at these Jews, my friends. What have they really done for us? Well, to start, they participated in the
slave trade, even owned some of the ships and companies that had transported our grandparents from their homes and villages in Africa to the so-called New World. These Jews have made a profit from our servitude, that’s what they have done for us!

  “And today, what does the Jew do for us? He is the slum lord, is he not? He owns our tenements; he does not fix the plumbing or replace the lights in the hallways and stairwells where our mothers and sisters are accosted; he does not repair the chipping paint our babies ingest; he does not provide heat in the winter, and does not replace broken locks on the doors to keep criminals out. All he cares about is filling his pockets, and that’s what the Jew does!”

  Joshua sat in the back of the class, listening to Professor Thompson’s final lecture of the semester. The professor had apparently saved the “best” for last, and Joshua couldn’t argue. The comments about Jewish landlords rang true to his experience, and the statements about Jews having been involved in slave trading were not without some historical evidence. And as for the reason some Jews marched with blacks in the South, there was some truth in that as well.

  Yet Joshua was bothered by the insinuation that all whites, and Jews in particular, were bad. What about Rachel, her father, or even Mr. Kimmel, the probation officer?

  He was about to raise his hand, but lost his nerve. He knew he was copping out, doing exactly what Thompson had admonished him about, but it just wasn’t worth it. Not at this time, in this place.

  The class concluded with a thunderous ovation. Joshua, too, found himself on his feet, applauding. Not because he was afraid of sticking out, but because there were things he’d learned from Thompson, and an intangible quality about the professor that he admired, despite the demagoguery.

  A few minutes passed before the room started emptying. Joshua gathered his belongings and was headed for the door when he heard his name called.

  What luck!

  He turned around; the notorious forefinger was beckoning.