I’m friends with Jews in New York. Not Orthodox Jews, but some knowledgeable, articulate, highly identifying Jews. The kind of people who boycott the New York Times because they think it’s anti-Israel, or who argue violently against boycotting the New York Times for precisely opposite reasons, or stage Jewish rallies against France or write Jewish poetry or talk intelligently on television about the Jewish perspective on things. Who would never dream of apologizing for, let alone denying, having a Jewish perspective on things.
By and large, you don’t get people like that in England. Sure, you get the odd participant in Thought for the Day on BBC radio, producing some platitude “from our sages.” And of course you get the self-haters, the “Israel is evil” brigade. Self-loathing is an equal-opportunity employer, after all. But you don’t get the vast participation in the cultural and intellectual life of the country of people who want to talk about, write about, think about Jewish things. And who know, confidently, that people who aren’t Jewish will be interested in what they have to say, too. Who aren’t afraid to use Jewish words, or refer to Jewish holidays or Jewish customs, because they trust their readers to understand what they’re talking about. You don’t get that here. It’s as though Jews in this country have made an investment in silence. There’s a vicious circle here, in which the Jewish fear of being noticed and the natural British reticence interact. They feed off each other so that British Jews cannot speak, cannot be seen, value absolute invisibility above all other virtues. Which bothers me, because while I can give up being Orthodox, I can’t give up being a Jew.
Thinking about this reminded me of some of the male members of my dad’s synagogue. Professional men, mostly, doctors, lawyers, accountants. I remembered the way they used to talk about their non-Jewish colleagues. Some of them, anyway. They’d say, “They don’t understand about Shabbat, those goyim,” or “They think kosher food just means not eating bacon,” or “A new secretary asked if I wore a kippah to cover my bald spot!” They used to laugh at these mistakes, but never tried to correct them. They’d say, “You can’t make them understand, you can’t explain. They don’t have the capacity.” As though they were discussing children or the mentally disabled.
They’d say wider things. They’d say that such and such a person was “bad for Jews,” because she wrote in a negative way about mikvah. Or that such and such a person was “good for Jews,” because he gave a bland talk on “Jewish ideals” on a Sunday morning BBC television program. They believed, without question, that debate about Jewish issues was bad, that unadulterated praise was all right but silence was best of all. I can’t stand them. I’d forgotten it was these people I was coming back to: these views, that synagogue full of small, cramped minds, grown twisted through lack of sunlight. That world of silence, where Jews must remain more quiet than non-Jews, and women more silent than men.
And thinking this, picturing the airless interior of the synagogue, I looked out of the window and saw it there. Standing behind its fence but still visible. My father’s synagogue. It was as though I’d summoned the building forth from my mind. Two semidetached houses, glued together and scooped out. I’ve never understood why they did that: presumably it must be cheaper than building something new, but given property prices in Hendon, probably not by much. I feel like it might have to do with faith: the idea that we won’t be here long, that the Messiah will be here any day, so we shouldn’t build anything long-lasting. I remember when they bought them—Hartog took us round before any work had been done, crouched down, breathing heavily into my face, and told me, “This will be your daddy’s new synagogue. “I couldn’t imagine it—they were just two houses. In one of the bedrooms, the wallpaper was decorated with rockets and moons. Even once half the floors and ceilings had been stripped out, the walls painted white, the ladies’ gallery created, I still imagined the rockets and moons were there somewhere. I used to pick at the corners of the wallpaper and paint, hoping to find them.
The cab made one turn, then another, past houses that were suddenly absurdly familiar. And there we were. A semidetached house with a pale yellow door, paint flaking from the window frames, the garden a tangle of long grass. Condensation was collecting at the corners of the windows, and one gutter dangled loose, like a broken limb. I rang the bell.
Dovid answered a fraction too quickly. He looked tired, and though I knew he was only thirty-eight, he looked about fifty to me. He was wearing that Yeshiva-boy costume of black trousers and white shirt, but his skin was sallow and he was unshaven. He smiled and immediately blinked and looked down. I wondered if he’d noticed that the skirt I’d chosen had a slit.
He said, “Ronit, it’s good to see you.”
I said, “Hey, Dovid,” and moved forward to kiss him on the cheek. He took a step backward, shaking his head slightly. I’d forgotten. It’s not allowed. To touch a woman who’s not your wife. Even shaking hands isn’t allowed. I bit back the apology rising to my lips, because the last thing I wanted to do was start apologizing for not being like them anymore.
He showed me into the front room and asked, tripping over his words, whether I’d like anything—a drink, some food? And I said sure, actually, I’d love a Coke. He half ran into the kitchen. I looked around the living room. Decorated in the blandest possible colors—pale yellow walls, beige carpet. No pictures apart from a large Mizrach on one wall, and a wedding picture on the mantelpiece. Right, wedding picture. Okay, let’s take a look at the wife.
I picked up the picture, heavy in its silver frame. Nothing unexpected: Dovid in his hat and suit, looking younger and happier, with his hand resting on the shoulder of a smiling woman in a white dress. And I thought, the wife looks a lot like Esti—how creepy. It occurred to me, almost as a joke, that maybe Dovid married one of Esti’s sisters. Even creepier. And I looked more closely. And I knew. Dovid came bustling back in with my drink. He saw me looking at the picture and he stopped. He said:
“Ronit, do you…” and broke off.
There was an awkward silence. Usually, I’d have filled it. But I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
Chapter Four
All say:
Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the Universe, who did not make me a slave.
Men say:
Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the Universe,
Who did not make me a woman.
Women say:
Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the Universe,
Who made me according to His will.
From Shacharit, the morning prayer
A tale is told by our sages that, when Hashem created the sun and the moon on the fourth day, he made them equal in size. (Just as, we learn, man and woman were first created in perfect equality.) For it is written, “And God made the two great lights.” But the moon complained at this, saying, “Two rulers may not use one crown.” And Hashem replied, saying, “Very well, since you ask for one to be lesser and one to be greater, your size shall be diminished, and the size of the sun increased. Your light shall be one-sixtieth of its previous strength.” The moon complained to Hashem at her plight and, so that she should not remain utterly without comfort, Hashem gave her companions—the stars. Now our sages tell us that at the end of days, when all things will be put to rights, the moon will once more be equal with the sun. Her demotion is only temporary; in time her full glory will be restored.
And what do we learn from this? In the first place, we learn that the moon was correct, for Hashem hearkened to her words. In this imperfect world two rulers cannot use one crown. One must always be lesser, and one greater. And so it is between man and woman. And so it will be until that time of perfection that we believe with complete faith will come soon and in our days. And yet, we learn that Hashem is merciful. That He recognizes the plight of the lesser of two. That He gives comfort to those in need. We learn that the stars are His gift to the moon.
At the Sara Rifka Hartog Memorial Day School, lessons were over. The girls had clumped d
ownstairs and out to the bus stop or tube station, the noise of them on the staircases had ceased—why, wondered Esti, did they all wear such heavy shoes? Why did they stamp, rather than stepping lightly? It was a matter that Mrs. Mannheim, the headmistress, had often mentioned in assembly, entreating the girls to walk gently, to make less noise. Esti was unsure what she thought about this constant pleading; she valued quiet and yet she felt there was something vital in the noise the girls made.
In any case, the school was quiet now. There was no reason for her to wait any longer. She should go home. And yet she did not.
Esti was aware that her lessons had lacked somewhat today. She had managed to keep order in the classroom, but doubted whether she had actually imparted any Torah knowledge to the girls. Of course, this was understood; she was grieving. Mrs. Mannheim had called her at home to emphasize that she need not come in at all this week, or next week, if she desired. And yet, today, she had decided to return. It was strange, she thought. Returning to work today, rather than remaining at home. Remaining in her classroom now, sitting at her desk marking books instead of returning to the house. Everything at the wrong time. She was unable to make sense of these facts, however, and contented herself with observing them from a distance.
Another interesting development. She completed her marking, and yet she remained sitting at her desk. There was nothing for her to do. It was time to go home. Strange, then, that she was still sitting in school. She packed her bag and locked the exercise books in her desk drawer. Yes. This was appropriate, rational behavior. She picked up her bag. She began to walk, very slowly, along the corridor. She found herself examining minutely the work pinned up on the walls: an art display of the girls’ paintings of a Shabbat table, seventeen sets of challot, wine, candlesticks, and goblet; a Jewish history display by some of the older girls demonstrating their studies of the Hasmonean period; a math display of twenty-three perfectly formed Venn diagrams illustrating how many girls liked hockey, how many liked netball, and how many liked both. Esti paid particular attention to the Venn diagrams. She enjoyed their simplicity and orderliness. Perhaps all characteristics could be broken down in this way, leading to a perfect understanding of human nature. People could be classified according to what they liked: some netball, some hockey, some both.
She continued to walk along the corridor. She found that it was, for some reason, necessary for her to look in every classroom, to admire the pictures on the wall or shake her head over a mislaid book or scarf or pencil case or elastic belt joined together with keys. If she had to examine every room in this way, she was aware it would be a long time before she was able to return home. She did not feel unhappy at this thought. She continued her progression, thinking herself alone in the school. She was surprised when, several classrooms down the corridor, she found a teacher still at work.
Miss Schnitzler, the geography teacher, was stapling pieces of work and what looked like black, circular maps to the back wall of her classroom. She was absorbed in her task. She did not hear Esti walking up to the door. Esti paused in the doorway, observing. Miss Schnitzler was young—only twenty-four—and beautiful, with long curly red hair, very pale skin, and translucent eyelashes. The girls liked her for this, as children often love beautiful people, especially if they are also a little kind. Esti had spoken to Miss Schnitzler on several occasions, but did not know her well. She had heard that Miss Schnitzler was engaged to be married later in the year, and then, of course, there would be no more teaching, not for a number of years, while she bore children and raised them. Esti had seen this before: the young women would arrive, work for three or four years, and then marry and depart.
Esti watched Miss Schnitzler bend to the box of drawing pins, take up a handful, and wrestle a poster into position—one of the round, dark, circular maps. She tried to hold it steady with one hand while she pinned it with the other. She was finding the task difficult. However she placed her hands, one corner of the chart flopped over, so that she could not tell whether it was level or not.
Esti said, “Can I help?”
Startled, Miss Schnitzler whirled around, but she had kept hold of the poster with one hand so that, as she turned, the poster ripped across its center.
Both women said, “Oh!” almost simultaneously. Miss Schnitzler looked down at the piece of paper in her hand, then back up at Esti. She smiled.
“Never mind. Let’s mend it together,” Miss Schnitzler said.
Esti understood that she should go home. It was past time. Dovid might be worried. She observed with interest that she did not go home at all, that, in fact, she stood waiting in the classroom while Miss Schnitzler fetched a roll of sticky tape. As Esti watched in fascination, Miss Schnitzler cut short pieces of tape and then stuck each firmly to the inside of her wrist, sticking them down and pulling them off several times, puckering the white skin, then smoothing it. She demonstrated how Esti should hold the poster in position, while she stuck the only slightly sticky pieces of tape along the tear on the front. They then carefully flipped the poster over, so that Miss Schnitzler could tape the back firmly along the tear with new tape. Esti watched Miss Schnitzler as they worked, enjoying her gentle concentration, noticing the deep furrow between her eyes as she stuck down each piece of tape. Finally, they turned the poster back, Miss Schnitzler removed the unsticky tape, and Esti held the poster against the wall while Miss Schnitzler pinned it in place.
Esti looked up at the finished product. The tear was barely visible; she could only see it because she knew where to look. Stepping back, Esti looked at the entire poster, still as incomprehensible to her as it had been before. The map was round, a dark circle marked with white points. It looked like a handful of flour, flung onto a black ground. Some points were large, some tiny.
“What is it?” she said. “What does it show?”
Miss Schnitzler took a step closer to her and smiled. “It’s a star chart. It shows the positions of all the stars in our galaxy.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yes. It’s Hashem’s creation. Do you remember the story? He gave the stars to the moon as a gift, to be her sisters and companions.”
Esti nodded. She was breathing slowly.
“These,” said Miss Schnitzler, “are the stars we can see from where we are, at night. They all have names.”
Miss Schnitzler stood close behind her. Esti could feel the woman’s light breath on her neck as she spoke the names of the stars. “This,” she said, “is Sirius, the dog star.” Esti nodded, not daring to move or reply.
“And this is Proxima Centauri, the nearest star to earth. Apart from the sun, of course.”
Esti whispered, “The sun is a star?”
“Oh, yes. It’s so close, we feel it’s more than it really is, something unique. But actually it’s just one of the many sisters to the moon. It’s not even the brightest kind. The polestar, here, is much brighter.”
Miss Schnitzler moved her arm around to point. She brushed Esti’s sleeve lightly. Her arm was in front of Esti’s face, pointing to a star in the center of the map. Her nail was very white, a perfect crescent moon extending past the nail bed. Esti found herself suddenly filled with various unexpected desires. She wanted to blow along Miss Schnitzler’s arm, to see the tiny hairs rise, or to touch the inside of her wrist with the very tip of her tongue. Esti wanted to grasp Miss Schnitzler’s arm, to pull her forward and against her, to whisper in her ear, “You don’t have to do it this way, you know. You don’t have to get married. You don’t have to leave the school. No one will force you if you simply go on saying no.”
A moment hung. Esti could smell the scent of Miss Schnitzler’s skin: dry like sandy soil, salt like the sea.
Esti stepped to the side and away, sharply.
“I have to go,” she said. “I’ll be late, I’m sorry, I have to go.”
She gathered her books and left, hugging them to her. She looked down, firmly down, not at Miss Schnitzler at all.
Esti walked
home. Her house was half a mile from the school; it was a pleasant walk. The day was warm, achingly so, despite the lateness of the season. Esti wanted to take off her cardigan but remembered just in time that she was wearing a short-sleeve blouse underneath. Impossible. She did not know why she even bought such ridiculous garments. If she took off her cardigan, her elbows would be exposed as she walked along the street; anyone might see her and comment. Still, it was too warm and she was walking too quickly. She did not understand why she was walking so quickly, she did not understand why she felt she should be walking more slowly. She did not allow herself to examine either of these thoughts too carefully.
She arrived at her house too soon, she felt. She walked slowly up toward it, noticing each footstep on the broken paving stones. Heel toe, heel toe. She observed her shoes: sensible brown leather lace-ups. One of the toes was scuffed. She would have to polish it. And the pavement; so fascinating. When had she last noticed the vivid green moss and grass growing where the stones were cracked? Had she ever noted before that some of the stones were a different color than the others: a sandy brown rather than a gray? She stood in front of her home, eyeing the house with suspicion. Was anything different? Hadn’t it shifted its position since she left for school in the morning? Surely it had shaken its shoulders in the meantime, and settled into a new shape, not discernible by any measurement but only by the keenest, best-accustomed eyes? To be sure, she should walk once more around the block and try to take it by surprise.