All things, when measured in spans of years, seem simple. But human lives do not occur in years but slowly, day by day. A year may be easy, but its days are hard indeed.
So. It has been a year. The grass has grown over the Rav’s grave and Esti and Dovid’s tiny son blinks in the autumn sunlight. But it has not been easy. There have been those, not a few, who have left the Rav’s synagogue: some with great noise and commotion and others more quietly, slipping out between one Sabbath and the next. There has been whispering and there has been shouting. Esti and Dovid have found themselves, perhaps, with fewer Shabbat invitations than they had previously enjoyed. Some people—though not as many as they feared—make their excuses to avoid speaking with them. They are still muttered of in Hendon, though not as often as was once the case.
And yet, with all this, things are fine. Certain things are possible. This, and this, but not this. Certain things will forever remain impossible. But within what is possible, there is room to live. Those people who remain at the synagogue have come to value Esti and Dovid’s continued presence. Esti speaks to the congregation at the stone-setting ceremony, as she has done from time to time over the year. A few simple words over the Rav’s grave and they are done. The people in attendance smile and thank her for her thoughts.
Esti and Dovid have bought a telescope. Through it, they examine the face of the moon, identifying the mountains and craters. After dark, once the baby is asleep, they place the telescope at the open window of the spare bedroom, taking turns to squint through the eyepiece. They sweep the telescope’s eye across the sky, focusing on far-distant stars. They name them to each other, marveling at the distance. Even among other people, they often mention one of these names, perhaps Arcturus or Rigel, as a secret signal to each other. The signal means: I’m still here.
Last night I dreamed that I flew over Hendon. The wind was around me, above and below, and filling my lungs. And beneath me, Hendon was spread out. At first, I saw its dried streets, the identical mock-Tudor houses. I saw the fitted wardrobes, the two-car families, the jobs for life in accountancy or law. I saw the kitchens that were more kosher than anyone else’s kitchens, skirts that were longer, tights that were thicker, sheitels that were attached more firmly than anyone else’s. I saw the study of Torah and the practice of good deeds and kindness, and I saw the gossip and the slander and the public humiliation.
And I said, “Lord, can there be passion in Hendon? Can there be desire or despair, can there be grief or joy, can there be wonder or mystery? Lord,” I said, “can this place live?”
And the Lord said to me, My child, if I will it, it will live.
And behold, I saw the Lord lift the roof from each house, as if with a mighty hand and outstretched arm. And the Lord spoke in turn to each person in each house, filling their hearts with His light. And I watched. And behold, when He was finished, nothing much changed.
And I said, “Lord, what does this mean?”
And the Lord said, My child, my joy, things here are slow to change, for this is a stiff-necked and disobedient people, but at least they are still willing to listen.
Ronit remains for five days in London. She asks after Hartog, who had not been present at the stone setting, and learns that he has joined another synagogue. There will, of course, always be somewhere for Hartog to go. Dovid is the Rabbi now, although he does not enjoy the title. “Call me Dovid,” he says to the people who visit his house. There are those who find this informality disturbing, who seek again the order and rigidity they knew in their youths. They call him Rabbi and he does not protest. They continue to come to the house, however. They come, sometimes, to see his wife rather than him. She is known as a good listener; no problem is too great for her ears, no trouble too shocking.
Ronit returns to New York. On the plane, she reads her father’s book, and although in places it irritates her beyond measure, she is pleased to have done so. She has discussed her father with Dr. Feingold, who suggests that perhaps she could learn to remember what good there was in their relationship, to appreciate it, and to understand that no parent can give his child everything she needs. Ronit wonders if this amounts to the same as honoring him as recommended in the Ten Commandments and decides that it probably doesn’t, but she doesn’t much care. She’ll do what she can and rely on the rest to be unimportant.
She’s come to recognize that there is a tiny, tenuous area where good sense intersects with fundamentalist religion. She’s trying out how it feels to live in that area, at least some of the time. So she took some time off, using Hartog’s money to good effect, and found a new job where she doesn’t have to share office space with a married man she used to sleep with. Good sense and religion agreed on that one. And sometimes, she does the stuff. Only if she wants to. She has Friday night dinner at her place, lighting the candles in those huge silver candlesticks, roasting a chicken. Sometimes, she even prays. Although she calls it “having words with God” and it’s not clear that her soul is humbled by it.
She takes a vacation in the south of the United States and is amazed by the quantity of sky there at her disposal every time she chooses to tip her face upward. She thinks about that: looking up, looking down, about how the sky is always there, wherever you go. You can choose to look at it, or not, but whichever you do it’ll still be there, a thing of beauty and light. She finds this strangely comforting.
I’ve been thinking about two states of being—being gay, being Jewish. They have a lot in common. You don’t choose it, that’s the first thing. If you are, you are. There’s nothing you can do to change it. Some people might deny this, but even if you’re only “a little bit gay” or “a little bit Jewish,” that’s enough for you to identify yourself if you want.
The second thing is that both those states—gayness, Jewishness—are invisible. Which makes it interesting. Because while you don’t have a choice about what you are, you have a choice about what you show. You always have a choice about whether you “out” yourself. Every time you meet someone new, it’s a decision. You always have a choice about whether you practice.
Practice, of course, means a lot of different things. Probably something different to everyone. You can practice every day, or just once in a while. But if you don’t ever practice, you’ll never know what it could have meant to you. You’ll never know who you might have been. If you don’t practice, you’ll probably even feel awkward claiming that identity: if it has no function in your life, what’s the point of saying it? It’s still there, of course. It’ll never go away. But if you don’t practice, it can never change your life.
Honestly, with the world the way it is, it’s probably easier not to practice. You’ll fit in better. If that’s what you want. Me, though, I’ve never been that interested in fitting in.
So, I’ve come to a conclusion. I can’t be an Orthodox Jew. I don’t have it in me and I never did. But I can’t not be one either. There’s something fierce and old and tender about that life that keeps on calling me back, and I suppose it always will. I guess that doesn’t sound like much of a conclusion, but it’s the only one I’ve got. Dr. Feingold calls it “learning to forgive myself.” I call it learning that you don’t always have to answer every request. Sometimes it’s enough to note it and say: maybe I’ll get to this, and maybe I won’t.
I had another dream a few nights ago. I was in some kind of outdoor restaurant, with trees and bushes growing all around. I was having lunch with this older guy—he kind of reminded me of my dad. We were just laughing, chatting, shooting the breeze when the waiter slid over with the wine list. I glanced through it and I said:
“Y’know what? I’ll have a Calvados.”
And the guy I was having lunch with leaned over and shook his head a little bit. He said, “You know you’re not supposed to have that.”
I winked at him and said, “I’ve got to make my own choices. It’ll be fine. You just wait and see.”
He said, “Hey, you can’t know that for certain.”
And I raised my glass to him, looking at the way the light refracted through the amber liquid. I downed it in one. It was warm and delicious, like all forbidden things. I put my glass on the table and raised an eyebrow. I said:
“It’ll be fine. I have faith.”
And he threw back his head and laughed.
Acknowledgments
For boundless enthusiasm and belief, thanks to Veronique Baxter and Kate Barker, as well as Elena Lappin, Paul Magrs, and Patricia Duncker. For financial encouragement, thanks to the Asham Literary Trust and to the David Higham Agency.
Thanks to Ann Fine and Kristen Nelson of the Casa Libre and to Frances Sjoberg and the staff at the University of Arizona Poetry Center for providing a quiet summer in the desert. Thanks to Tash Aw, Philip Craggs, Siobhán Herron, Yannick Hill, Jen Kabat, Lesley Levene, and Helena Pickup. Special thanks to Diana Evans for the title and other wonders.
Thanks to my family, especially my grandmother Lily Alderman and my brother Eliot Alderman. Thanks to Vivien Burgoyne, Deborah Cooper, Dr. Benjamin Ellis, Jack Ferro, Yoz and Bob Grahame, Rabbi Sammy, and Liat Jackman and Andrea Phillips. Thanks to Esther Donoff, Russell, Daniella and Benjy. Thanks to Dena Grabinar and Perry Wald for support, faith, and the provision of safe harbor.
About the Author
NAOMI ALDERMAN is a graduate of Oxford University and the University of East Anglia’s Creative Writing MA and has published award-winning short fiction in a number of anthologies. She has worked as an editor and game designer, and spent several years living in New York. She grew up in the Orthodox Jewish community in Hendon, where she now lives.
Naomi Alderman, Disobedience
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