Disobedience

by Naomi Alderman

  And, like you do in a dream, I knew I should open the book. I put out my hand and opened it and read the first line. As I read it, the words echoed around the library. They said, like God said to Abraham: “You are my chosen one. Leave this land and go to another place which I shall show you!”

  Okay, so, I made that last part up. But the other stuff was genuine. I woke up with a headache, which I never get, but it was as if someone had dropped a dictionary on my skull during the night. I had to take a long, really hot shower to ease the words out of my brain and the tension out of my shoulders, and when I was done, of course then I was late for work, so I was walking, no, make that marching down Broadway in search of a cab, which you can only ever find when you don’t need one, when suddenly I heard a voice say, as though it’d spoken right in my ear:

  “Excuse me, are you Jewish?”

  And I stopped, almost jumped, because it was so close, and so unexpected. I mean, particularly in New York, where everyone’s Jewish anyway. So I turned to see who it was and lo, I had fallen for the oldest trick in the book, because there was a guy with a smart suit, a neatly trimmed beard, and a stack of flyers, clearly out to sign up some Jews for his one hundred percent top-quality religion.

  Poor guy. Really. Because I was late, so in a bad mood to start off with. And I’d had that dream. Usually, I would have just walked on by. But some mornings you just want to fight with someone.

  I said, “I’m Jewish. Why?”

  Except, of course, I said it in a British accent, which I could see puzzled him straightaway. On the one hand, he wanted to say, “Hey, you’re British!” because he’s American, and they like to tell me that. But on the other hand, he had God whispering encouragingly in his ear, saying here, here is a woman whom you, my friend, can win for righteousness. The guy pulled himself together. Souls to save, worlds to conquer:

  “May I interest you in a free seminar on Jewish history?”

  Right. Of course. He was one of these guys. Not selling a new religion, but the old one; winning people back to the faith. Free seminars on Jewish history, Friday night dinners, a bit of Bible code thrown in. Well, I guess it works for people who’ve never had that experience. But that’s not me. Hell, I could be leading one of these things.

  I said: “No, thanks, I’m really busy right now.”

  And I was about to turn and walk away when he touched my sleeve, just brushed it with the palm of his hand, as though he wanted to feel the material of my coat, but it was enough to freak me out slightly. It made me almost long for a Lubavitch boy, whose sweat and desperation you can smell from three feet away, and who would never touch a woman. Anyway, my guy held out a leaflet and said:

  “We’re all very busy. These are fast-moving times. But our ancient heritage is worth making time for. Take a flyer. Our programs run all over the city; you can join anytime you like.”

  I took the flyer. And I glanced at it for a second, intending to walk on. And then I looked for a bit longer, just standing there. I had to read it over and over, trying to understand what I was looking at. A bright yellow sticker on the front read: “Monday night special seminar—Rabbi Tony will talk on Rav Krushka’s book, Day by Day, and how to apply its lessons in our lives.” I mean, I knew he wrote a book, but when did it come over here? When did he produce lessons to help us in our lives? When did people who call themselves “Rabbi Tony” start being interested?

  I pointed at the yellow sticker and said: “What’s this?”

  “Are you interested in Rav Krushka? That’s a wonderful presentation. Gets right to the heart of his teachings. It’s very inspiring.”

  Poor guy. It wasn’t his fault. Not really.

  I said: “What’s your name?”

  He smiled broadly. “Chaim. Chaim Weisenburg.”

  “Well, Chaim. What exactly are you doing this for?”

  “This?”

  “This, standing on the street corner, handing out flyers to passersby. Are you being paid for it? You owe some money? They threaten to break your legs?”

  Chaim blinked. “No. No, I’m a volunteer.”

  I nodded. “So you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “I’m doing it because I believe it’s the right thing to do. Our heritage—”

  I spoke over him. “Right. Heritage. Only it’s not heritage you’re selling here, is it, Chaim? It’s religion.”

  He spread his arms wide, a little flustered.

  “I wouldn’t say selling exactly, it’s more—”

  “You wouldn’t say selling? But don’t you get something in return for handing out all this religion?” He tried to speak, but I just barreled on. “Don’t you, Chaim Weisenburg, get a special seat in the world to come if you get a few straying Jews signed up? Isn’t that why you’re doing it? Profit? Face it, Chaim, you’re just in it for yourself, aren’t you?”

  He was angry now.

  “No. No, that’s not it at all. That’s not how it is. God has commanded us—”

  “Ah. Okay. Now we’re getting to it. God commanded you. God tells you what to do and you jump to it. You’re doing this because you think God wants you to, right? God wants you to find the straying Jews and bring them back to the fold?”

  Chaim nodded. A few people turned their heads as they walked past, but no one stopped.

  “Well, let’s say God did command you to do that. Has it ever occurred to you, Chaim, that some of us don’t want to be brought back? Some of us don’t want to be found? Some of us have been in that fold and found it narrow, and limiting, and more like a prison than a safe harbor. Has it ever occurred to you that God might be wrong?”

  Chaim opened his mouth and closed it again. I guess it was obvious I wasn’t going to be attending any seminar. I ripped up the flyer and threw it at him in confetti pieces. I admit it, I’m a drama queen.

  When I got to the subway station, I turned back to look at him, and he was still staring at me, his flyers hanging limp in his hand.

  Dr. Feingold tells me that I need to work on “feeling my feelings,” in the interests of which I have to admit that ol’ Chaim got to me more than I’d expected. I was still thinking about him, and about all those saps lining up to take seminars in “the lessons of Rav Krushka,” when I got into work. I carried on thinking about it through the working day, which is pretty unusual for me. I usually enjoy the way work forces everything else out of your head. I work in corporate finance; I’m an analyst. It’s a full-on job, it takes all the brains I have in my head. I think that’s what most of us want, really, isn’t it? A challenge that’s just hard enough that we can accomplish it, but it’ll take everything we’ve got. So that there’s no room left in us for the doubt, the worry, the internal crises. We have to let it fill us up because that’s the only way to get the job done. Dr. Feingold says, “So you won’t have time to think, Ronit?” and she’s probably right, but maybe introspection is overrated. Anyway, I like my job, and I’m good at it. I had a new contract to work on, which demands full concentration if you’re not going to misplace a million dollars, and yet somehow there Chaim was, all day. I kept imagining him on the street, handing out his flyers. Some people would walk on, but some people would take one. And of those, some people would call, and of those, some people would end up attending that seminar. Chaim was wearing a sharp suit. The flyers were glossy. They’re probably doing well. Hundreds of sheep are probably stumbling back to the fold right now. It unsettles me, just a bit, to think about the business of it, about the expenditure-to-sales ratio and the probable returns. If you can put a value on a soul, there’s probably someone out there just like me, crunching the numbers on the religious-zeal biz.

  And, yes, yes, Dr. Feingold would probably say that even thinking about that was a way to stop thinking about other things, but you know, sometimes I’m just too clever even for myself.

  I stayed late at work, trying to make up for the things I hadn’t got done during the day, but of course that never happens because you
get more and more tired as the evening goes on, and the amount of time the work’s going to take gets longer and longer. Eventually, I noticed Scott and I were the only two people left in our section, and I thought it wouldn’t be long before he came over and tried to talk to me—or didn’t. Didn’t would have been even more uncomfortable, so at nine o’clock I went home. Without wishing him good night.

  Inevitably, because journeys are so good for brooding, thoughts of Chaim and Rabbi Tony led to thoughts of London, which are never good thoughts to have. And when I got back, after dark, I realized, of course, that it was Friday night, which is never a good thing to realize. And I started to think about my mother, one of the only distinct memories I have of her, which must have been because it was of something that happened so often: on Friday night, lighting her candles in those huge silver candlesticks covered in silver leaves and flowers.

  And I knew it wasn’t going to get any less maudlin from then on. And I really wasn’t up for one of those fun evenings contemplating how no one else in my life has ever truly loved me, so I poured myself a large one and went to bed with a book.

  That night, I dreamed of nothing and no one, which was perfect. When I woke, it was late. I walked to the Museum of Natural History on Seventy-ninth Street, but by the time I’d got there it was closed, and it was too cold to sit in the park. I could have called someone, made dinner plans, gone to the movies, but I didn’t; I watched the rest of the day pass by, the hours chasing each other to sunset.

  At eight o’clock it’d been dark for about an hour, and I was thinking of ordering takeout when the phone rang. I picked it up and there was a silence on the other end, then the sound of drawn-in breath. I knew it was Dovid before he spoke a word. He’s always done that on the phone—a silence. Like he’s trying to decide whether, after all, you’ll be glad to hear his voice.

  So while he was saying “Hello, is that Ronit?” I was already thinking of witty remarks to make, of ways to point out how unusual this call was, how unexpected. I was already gathering my armor around me, so that no message he could give would hurt me.

  “Ronit? Is that you?”

  I realized I hadn’t spoken. “This is she.” God. So American.

  “Ronit?”

  He wasn’t convinced.

  “Yes, this is Ronit. Who’s calling?” I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

  “Ronit, it’s Dovid.”

  “Hi, Dovid—what can I do for you?” I sounded so cheerful, like it was six weeks, not six years, since we’d last spoken.

  “Ronit,” he said again. “Ronit…”

  And it was only then, listening to Dovid unable to do more than say my name over and over, that I began to think about what earthquake could have shaken that little world and produced this aftershock several thousand miles away; an unexpected call. Not a call before New Year, or at Passover, but a call on a regular Saturday night. And I thought, of course. Because there are no coincidences.

  “Ronit,” Dovid repeated.

  “What’s wrong, Dovid?”

  And Dovid took a breath and told me that my father was dead.

  Chapter Two

  He makes the wind blow and He makes the rain descend. He sustains the living with kindness, and resurrects the dead with abundant mercy.

  From the Amidah, recited in the evening, morning, and afternoon of every day

  Torah, we are told, is compared to water.

  Without water, the earth would be but a thirsty husk, a parched and aching desert. Without Torah, man, too, would be only a shell, knowing neither light nor mercy. As water is life-giving, so Torah brings life to the world. Without water, our limbs would never know freshness or balm. Without Torah, our spirits would never know tranquility. As water is purifying, so Torah cleanses those it touches.

  Water comes only and forever from the Almighty; it is a symbol of our utter dependence on Him. Should He withhold rain for but a season, we could no longer stand before Him. Just so, Torah is a gift that the Holy One Blessed Be He has given the world; Torah, in a sense, contains the world, it is the blueprint from which the world was created. Should Torah be withheld only for a moment, the world not only would vanish, but would never even have been.

  We should not separate ourselves from Torah, as we would not deny ourselves water. For those who have drunk of it will, in the sum of things, live.

  By nine o’clock on Saturday night, Shabbat had been over for an hour, and the gray-faced doctor had released the Rav’s body.

  In the synagogue’s entrance hall, an urgent, whispered congress was taking place among the members of the synagogue board: Hartog the president, Levitsky the treasurer, Kirschbaum the secretary, Newman, and Rigler. There were important matters to discuss: the issue of who would undertake to prepare the Rav’s body for burial the most pressing of them.

  “Dovid is head of the Chevra Kadisha,” said Levitsky. “It is right that he should continue his duties. It is not forbidden. A nephew may perform taharah for an uncle.”

  “Dovid will not want to perform this duty,” declared Rigler. “It is unthinkable. We will undertake the work.”

  “No—it is right.” Levitsky’s face trembled with the excitement of having a position, of taking a stand. “It is more dignified. We must think of the Rav’s dignity.”

  Newman remained silent, glancing from one face to another, attempting, as was his way, to discover where the consensus would fall.

  After the argument had raged for a few minutes, and Rigler had begun to gleam with sweat, Hartog drew himself up. He said:

  “Do you not think, gentlemen, that we should ask Dovid? I am sure that he will have an opinion in the matter.” The other men fell silent. They stood contemplating the quiet of the synagogue. When Newman spoke his voice seemed loud.

  “What will happen now?”

  Hartog looked at him. “Now? Now we must prepare the Rav for burial.”

  “No,” said Newman. “What will happen now? Now that he is gone.”

  Hartog nodded. “There’s nothing to fear,” he said. “The Rav’s work will continue. His book will still be read, his thoughts will live within our minds. The shul will continue its work. Everything will remain as it has been. Nothing need change.”

  A question remained unspoken. Each of them knew it; it was the same question that had been raised among the men on many other occasions. In quiet meetings, over Sabbath tables, and in whispered telephone conversations, the question had been asked and then abandoned. It was too difficult to address, an impiety while the Rav yet lived. And yet now, each of them wished he had had the courage to voice it strongly, to solicit opinions, even to ask the Rav what he himself thought. It was too late for this indecision. The question ought to have been answered months earlier.

  Levitsky bent his head and looked at his shoes:

  “Who will lead us now that our pillar of fire is gone?”

  The men looked at one another. This was the heart of it. There was no answer, none at least that made itself apparent to them. They looked at one another in silence, lips pursed, eyes narrow.

  Only Hartog smiled. He brought his hand down on Levitsky’s shoulder.

  “Dovid,” he said. “Dovid will lead us. We will not ask him today, of course. But I shall speak with him. He will lead us. Today, though, we concern ourselves only with the taharah.”

  If he saw the glances exchanged by the other men at this, Hartog gave no sign of it. He strode through the double doors into the main shul. Behind him, Kirschbaum muttered, “Dovid?”

  Rigler nodded and replied, “But his wife…”

  Esti received the message that her husband would not return that night, that he would wait the night with the Rav and in the morning complete the taharah. She found herself packing her things for the mikvah, just as she had planned. She felt oddly proud that her actions continued in their intended path, even though she had not willed them. She felt it boded well. Nothing had changed, the pattern of her life remained the same. This indicat
ed that nothing need change. Like any normal woman, she was preparing herself to return to her husband’s bed.

  Each month, when a woman is bleeding, she is forbidden to her husband. They may not have marital relations, may not touch, may not even sleep in the same bed. And when her flow ceases, the wife must count seven clean days, as is written in the Torah. And at the end of those clean days, she must visit the mikvah to immerse herself completely in natural water: rainwater or river water or seawater. And once she has immersed herself, she may return to her husband’s bed.

  The mikvah is a sacred place, a holy place. More holy, perhaps, than a synagogue, for we learn that when a new community is founded, the mikvah should be built first, the synagogue second. Like so many holy things, mikvah is private. For this reason, women do not disclose their day of visiting its cleansing waters. For this reason, the building itself will be arranged so that no woman has to see another at the mikvah. Several comfortable bathrooms lead off the central chamber with its pool of deep water. In each bathroom, a woman washes herself privately, summoning the attendant only when she is ready to immerse herself in the mikvah. Thus, the mikvah remains a hidden thing, between the woman, her husband, and the Almighty.

  In the bathroom at the mikvah, Esti emerged from her bath and stood before the mirror, observing her naked body critically. She was, she decided, too thin. She was growing thinner, year by year. Something must be done. She had decided this before, and determined to eat more; it was almost a weekly resolution. She glossed her vegetables with butter and her roast potatoes with schmaltz. She doused rice dishes with oil, and fried her fish in batter. During one particularly concerted attempt, she had even tried to eat her breakfast cereals with cream instead of milk. But no matter how decadent the meal, her appetite would dissolve as she reached the table. If she forced herself to eat, her stomach rewarded her with wrenching guts and miserable nausea.