“The Rav was brilliant,” they said. “His thoughts were quick and lucid.”
“The Rav was a giant among men,” they said. “We were awed by him.”
“The Rav had astonishing kindness,” they said. “His heart was filled with the love of the Jewish people.”
Well. Maybe it’s true. I have no way of knowing.
I was four years old when my mother died. It’s young enough that I might never think of her. Old enough that the knowledge would always be with me. And I don’t. And it is.
There’s nothing to think of, of course. What do I remember? A sensation of warmth, a brown skirt and a pair of legs, a laugh as she talked to someone on the telephone, a time when I was ill in bed—a fever, perhaps spots—and she brought me soup and fed it to me with a spoon. A pair of candlesticks. A pickle bowl. The cream-colored shoes she wore on Shabbat.
I remember the aftermath more clearly. Mourning, sitting on a low stool, the women of Hendon showing me kindness, brushing my hair, dressing me, giving me food, and they were kind indeed but they weren’t my mother and so nothing could help. It wasn’t my father who did these things, who made the food or laid out my clothes; he had his studies. It was a succession of women, first the women of the community and then housekeepers, one after another, as interchangeable as grains of sand or the stars of the sky.
And there was never a hesped for my mother. There were no great men lined up to speak words of praise for her, no banquet to memorialize her. For a woman cannot be a Rabbi, and only a Rabbi can be a scholar of such note, and only a scholar of note will be honored with a hesped.
These are subtle things. We don’t condone wife beating here, or genital mutilation, or honor killings. We don’t demand head-to-toe coverings, or cast-down eyes, or that a woman must not go out in public unaccompanied. We are modern. We live modern lives. All we demand is that women keep to their allotted areas; a woman is private, while a man is public. The correct mode for a man is speech, while the correct mode for a woman is silence.
I’ve spent a long time proving that this isn’t so. I’ve spent a long time insisting that no one else can tell me when to speak and when to remain silent. So much so that it’s hard for me to tell when I want to be quiet.
In another life, another me would have been at the hesped because I had a plan, some sort of grand caper to make Hartog suffer or to make myself more noticeable. But it wasn’t that. I was there because they wanted me there. They had asked me. They had something planned.
So I stood in silence and I listened. It’s this concept I’ve been working on.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we had been hoping, that is, er, we had been expecting that Rabbi Dovid Krushka, the Rav’s nephew, would join us today, to speak a few words. Unfortunately, as you know, Rabbi Krushka has been far from well recently…”
It’s now, thought Dovid. If I am to do it, it’s now.
He pulled back the curtain. He drew a breath. The crowd was silent. He would not have to be loud, but loud enough.
He said, “I am here.”
Heads twisted and necks craned. Women nudged their neighbors. There was a sort of laughing gasp as the people saw that Dovid was standing in the ladies’ gallery. Some of the congregation wondered privately if it might not be forbidden for him to be there. The thing seemed a terrible, forbidden mingling.
Hartog looked at Dovid, motioning wildly, beckoning him down to the stage.
Dovid acquiesced. He dropped the curtain in front of his face, stepped back, and walked down the stairs to the main hall to take his place on the stage. Somewhere between the ladies’ gallery and the stage, though, he found a companion. For, as Dovid walked onto the stage, he was accompanied by his wife. They were holding hands, Dovid’s right hand in Esti’s left. In the instant it took every eye to swivel, those linked hands were the only important feature in the room. With Esti, Dovid stood before the microphone.
“My wife,” he said, “would like to say a few words.”
He took a pace to the side. Esti took a pace forward. Their hands remained interlinked. This was important. Had Dovid let go, had he stepped away from her, had he retreated to the back of the stage, there would have been remonstrances and mutterings. The people would have asked, “What is this?” and “Why?” They would have whispered against her. As it was, they stood together and Esti spoke. Perhaps the simplest thing of all.
“Speech,” she said. “One month ago, the Rav gave us his thoughts on the matter of speech. On its importance, on the holiness of each word that proceeds from our mouths. He told us that, with speech, we imitate God. As God created this world with speech, so, too, we create worlds with our words. What world,” said Esti, “have we created with our words in this past month?”
The hall was utterly silent.
“The way to honor a man, surely, is to hearken to his words? To reflect on them, to contemplate them, to discuss and debate them. Did not our sages demonstrate their respect for one another by argument, by constantly toiling in each other’s words, by point and counterpoint? This is what I would do today, to consider the words of the Rav.”
Esti looked down at her hand, at the place where it was interlinked with Dovid’s, then back up at the people. She took a breath and began again.
“A long time ago, I had a conversation with the Rav. I was fifteen and I told him…” She paused, seeming unsure how to proceed. “I told him that I had experienced improper desires.” A buzz in the hall, a sharp noise like the humming of insects. “I told him that my friend, my dear school friend and I…” Again, she broke off. Whatever this deed was, these desires, there appeared to be no words to describe them. “You must understand,” she said, “that I wanted to behave properly, to follow the Torah, to keep the mitzvot. I sought the Rav’s advice. I told him…” She gulped, took another breath, and spat out the words. “I told him that I had desired another woman. That she had desired me.”
Buzzing again. A whispering, metallic sound as three hundred people put down their wineglasses and napkins, ceased to chew their mouthfuls of excellent food.
Esti held up her hand and the crowd fell silent again. She continued to speak, softly, in a measured tone.
“The Rav listened with compassion. He told me that this matter did not surprise him, that it did not shock him. He was kind and he was sympathetic. He listened to me with seriousness; he understood these were not simply childish fantasies. He explained that to act on such desires is forbidden. I had already understood this. He explained further that the desire itself is not forbidden. I had understood this, also. He told me that, if I felt able, I should marry—a quiet man, a man who would not make demands upon me. Someone, he said, who hears the voice of Hashem in the world. Someone capable of silence. In this, the Rav was right. May his memory be blessed.”
Around the hall, there was a low murmured “May his memory be blessed” as three hundred people found, with relief, a sentence to which they knew how to respond.
“The Rav also told me that I should remain silent regarding my desires. That no good would be served if I were to communicate them to my husband, to the others in the community. He explained that certain things must remain secret, that it is better not to speak of them, that the community would do better if they were never spoken of. Some topics, he told me, are best discussed only in private—they should not be aired. The Rav was a wise man, a good man, learned in Torah. In so many matters, his understanding was deep. But in this matter he was wrong. May his memory be blessed.”
Again, a ripple of agreement in the congregation, perhaps a little more uncertain this time.
“Speech,” she said. “It is the gift of creation. For God created the world from speech and so our speech, too, is the power to create. Let us examine, for a moment, God’s creation. He spoke, and the world came into being. If God had valued silence above all, He would never have spoken to create the world. If He had prized only the silence of his creations, He would never have given a part of it the gift of spe
ech. Our words are powerful. Our words are real. This does not mean, however, that we should remain silent forever. Rather, we must measure our words. We must be sure that we use them, like the Almighty, to create and not to destroy.
“There have been those”—she paused, smiling a little—“there have been those who have wished me gone. There have been those who have found my mere presence an abomination, who have lived in fear of what might be said about me, what one might say to another. We should not be afraid of words, or of speaking the truth openly. That is why I am speaking today. I am not afraid to speak the truth.
“I have desired that which is forbidden to me. I continue to desire it. And yet, I am here. I obey the commandments. It is possible”—Esti smiled—“as long as I do not have to do so in silence.”
Here is the difference between New York and London. In New York, that would have been the showstopper. When Esti finished talking, walked off the stage with Dovid, when they left the hall, that would have been the end of the event. There would have been riotous applause, or perhaps angry shouting, something loud and dramatic, anyway.
But, because this is Britain, that’s not what happened. There was a pause, a minute or two. A great quantity of whispered conversation, some pursed lips, some eye rolling, and then the event simply continued, speaker after speaker. There’s something both admirable and hateful about this. The stolid refusal to become dramatic is also the inability to respond to serious things seriously, with depth. That next half hour was proof, if proof was needed, that what we say about ourselves is not true. There is a myth—many of us believe it—that we are wanderers, unaffected by the place in which we live, hearkening only to the commandments of the Lord. It’s a lie. These British Jews were British—they shuffled awkwardly, looked at their feet, and drank tea.
Having said that, there were a couple of gratifying responses. Hinda Rochel Berditcher and Fruma Hartog looked at each other over the peach and apricot pavlova. I was watching them from across the hall, from behind this ridiculous wig. Hinda Rochel was evidently attempting to be calm, consoling, speaking oiled words. Fruma was white, even more so than normal. Hinda Rochel offered to cut her a piece of cake. Fruma refused, lips tightly shut like a baby refusing a spoonful of mashed liver. Hinda Rochel put out a hand and touched Fruma’s arm. Fruma shook her off and said, and I could read her lips quite well even from across the hall, “Don’t touch me.”
It wasn’t much, but it made me smile.
And then there was Hartog. I have to confess, I had almost intended to speak to him, to show myself. My outfit represented something, as clothing always does. It showed that I wasn’t there for myself, I was there for Esti and Dovid because they’d asked me to be there. Because this was their way of making their peace with my father and with me, with our pasts. Esti had rustled up the clothes from the various appropriate shops in Golders Green. But, I’d sort of thought, I’d contemplated the possibility that at the end of the hesped, as everyone was filing out, I’d walk up to Hartog, to show myself to him, to say…“Well, I came anyway, you tosser. Now what are you going to do?” I didn’t want him to have even that victory, even thinking he’d managed to get rid of me even to that extent.
So, as the crowd was streaming out of the hesped I made my way toward him. The food had been eaten, the speeches had been made. The people were ambling home, muttering among themselves about Esti, sure, but also, I noticed, about the excellent food, the excellent speeches, the properness of such a celebration of the Rav’s life. Yes, we don’t do things in a hurry. Not Orthodox Jews, not the people of Britain. I spotted Hartog in the lobby and headed in his general direction. I still thought I might speak to him, but as I came closer, I found the desire ebbing away. It was enough. Something had changed here. As much as could ever change. I found, and was surprised to find, that I didn’t want to confront him.
I passed right by him in the lobby. He was wearing a fixed smile, staring at the crowd leaving the hall without focusing on any one person, even those who shook him by the hand. Admittedly, I wasn’t wearing my usual clothes. But still, he looked right through me as I passed, didn’t register my presence. Except, as I walked by him, I turned my head a little and looked back. He reached his hand up quickly to his face: I thought he’d seen me and was going to call me back, or was stifling a gasp. No. He pinched his nose in the palm of his hand, drew his hand away, and looked at it. The tips of his fingers were red. He shoved his hand into his pocket and drew out a crumpled handkerchief, trying to stem the thin trickle of blood dribbling from his nose, just as if someone had punched him in the face.
Chapter Thirteen
It is not for you to complete the task, but neither are you free to refrain from it.
Pirkei Avot 2:20
There is a story told in the Talmud. We know that every word in the Talmud is the true word of God, so it follows that this story, too, is true.
A story is told of several Rabbis, arguing over an abstruse point of law. One of them, Rabbi Eliezer, vehemently disagreed with the other sages. After long debate, he at last said, “If the law is as I say, may this carob tree prove it!” And the carob tree uprooted itself from its place. But the sages said, “No proof can be brought from a carob tree.”
And Rabbi Eliezer said, “If the law is as I say, may this stream of water prove it!” And the stream began to flow backward. But the sages said, “No proof can be brought from a stream.”
And Rabbi Eliezer said, “If the law is as I say, may the walls of the study house prove it!” And the walls of the study house began to bend inward. But Rabbi Joshua rebuked them, saying, “When the sages debate, what right have you to interfere?” So, out of respect for Rabbi Joshua, the walls did not fall, but out of respect for Rabbi Eliezer, they did not return to their place; hence they are still bent to this day.
And Rabbi Eliezer said, “If the law is as I say, may Heaven prove it!” And a voice came from Heaven, saying, “Why do you disagree with Rabbi Eliezer, seeing the law is always as he says?” And Rabbi Joshua stood up and said, “It is not in Heaven! It is not for a divine voice to decide the law, for in the Torah it is written that the majority opinion shall prevail.” And the sages followed the majority opinion in their ruling, and not the opinion of Rabbi Eliezer.
And from this we learn that we are not to look to Heaven to solve the difficulties of our lives, that we are not to interpret signs and wonders to live our lives by them. We learn that there is value in making our own choices, even if God Himself communicates clearly that the choices we make are wrong. We learn that we may argue with God, that we may disobey His direct commandments and yet delight Him with our actions. We learn of God’s compassion for us—in the end, broader than we can understand.
For the story does not end there. We read that, later, Rabbi Nathan met the prophet Elijah in a dream. And he said to the prophet, “What did the Almighty do, when Rabbi Joshua said ‘It is not in Heaven!’?” And Elijah replied, “At that moment, God laughed with joy, saying, ‘My children have defeated Me, My children have defeated Me.’”
God has given the world to us, for a spell. He has given us His Torah. And, like a good parent, like a loving father, He has joyfully set us free. It is not in Heaven.
In the cemetery, a small crowd—forty or fifty people, far fewer than attended the hesped—has gathered by the side of a grave. It is a year since the Rav died, and time, in the way of things, to place the headstone by the site where his body rests. The ceremony is simple; it will not take long.
Ronit has returned to Hendon for her father’s stone setting. She looks up at the pale blue morning sky, streaked with white and gray, and thinks of how only the day before, she had been there, on a plane. She had been in the morning. She had a strange dream as the plane was passing through the night across the Atlantic, but she doesn’t think she’s going to tell anyone about it. It’s just between her and the morning.
She’s holding the baby, just a few days shy of three months. They’ve named him Mo
she, after her father, and she’s not sure how she feels about the Freudian significance of holding a child named after her dad, but she’s not worrying too much about that either.
Esti and Dovid stand together loosely, both looking forward rather than at each other, as though at any moment they might realize they were standing too close to a complete stranger and walk away from each other. But they don’t. They remain together, and when Esti moves forward, Dovid goes with her. Watching them, Ronit thinks about people who stay married even if one partner changes sex, or loses several key appendages or their mind. She knows that’s kind of patronizing, but she’s just trying to get her head around it.
Esti is watching Ronit, too. She’s thinking that Ronit seems less, now, than she did before. It’s not that she is less, Esti knows that, but that she used to seem too much. There was a time when Esti thought that Ronit’s face contained the world, but now, well, it’s just a face. She’s grateful for that, grateful for the change, because it’s not good to see the world in a face that doesn’t belong to you, that’s always turning away from you.
She doesn’t see the world in Dovid’s face either, but she can see it’s a better face than she thought. He is kind and he has a surprisingly good sense of humor. These things aren’t everything, but for now, they’re enough to make the journey not unappealing to her. She thinks if she had the choice to make again, the original choice from all those years ago, she’d still choose the same. It seems quite clear to her. Esti finds that, these days, she’s quite clear about a lot of things, as though a sort of fog had lifted from her brain. It’s as if she herself had been brought into focus, like a telescope drawing down the moon. She surprises herself, quite often, by thinking: it’s fine. Everything is just fine.
A year, of course, makes all things seem easy. In a year, a mere stirring in the belly becomes a child—tiny and unknowable, his eyes clear blue and his hands grasping. In a year, the grass grows over a grave, softening its edges. In a year, the depths of grief become less raw, what was shocking becomes commonplace, what was talked of constantly becomes old and stale.