Disobedience

by Naomi Alderman

  I went back to the study. The books were silent. I started work.

  By seven-thirty that morning, I’d cleared off the entire central table and had heard every UK Top 20 song at least three times. There had been no candlesticks among the detritus, but at least order had begun to emerge. To be honest, the search for the candlesticks had become less important as I worked. I was enjoying myself, enjoying the sense of mastery over my past that this ordering gave me. Every item sorted or thrown away was another inch reclaimed from my father. The doorbell rang.

  A religious woman, standing at the door in a big blond sheitel, with orangey-red lipstick and just a touch of mascara. She was wearing a stylish ensemble of purple and black blouse and long black skirt. Looking at her, I found myself thinking: Now, that is the outfit I should have worn.

  She spoke quickly, as they all do, and I could hardly understand what she was saying: something about cleaning and Hartog was all I got.

  I said, “Excuse me?”

  She spoke more slowly. “It’s great you’ve started so early. Has Dr. Hartog told you what needs to be cleaned and what we’ll do ourselves?”

  I said, “Umm. Not a cleaner.”

  She paused, puzzled.

  I said, “I’m the Rav’s daughter. Ronit.”

  She peered at me.

  “Ronit? Ronit Krushka?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s me! Hinda Rochel!”

  I blinked. Surely not? I remembered a Hinda Rochel from school.

  “Hinda Rochel Steinmetz?”

  She beamed and waggled her left hand at me.

  “It’s Hinda Rochel Berditcher now. Do you know”—she was conspiratorial—“I didn’t recognize you with those trousers on, and with such short hair!”

  There was an edge to her voice, just a little. Perhaps an accusation, perhaps simply a question.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m different now.”

  She waited. She was expecting more than that, I knew. But, oh well, she wasn’t going to get it. After a moment, she beamed again.

  “Anyway, it’s so wonderful to see you.”

  She hugged me. A chaste hug, but a warm one, her palms flat against the center of my back. She stepped back and tilted her head to one side.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss. I wish you a long life.”

  I never know what to say to that. I remember it, from long ago, from when my mother died. I never knew what to say to it then, either.

  “I’ve been sorting things out.” I rolled my eyes. “The junk in this house is indescribable. It’s going to take two or three days just to sort through the study. Still”—I put my hands on my hips—“I guess if I work straight through to evening today, I’ll make good progress.”

  Hinda Rochel twisted her mouth, a lipstick convulsion.

  “Not evening,” she said. “Shabbat. It’s Shabbat tonight. Unless…you don’t…anymore?”

  I could have said no, I don’t anymore. I could have said Shabbat, what rubbish, what a strange way to allow God to bully you, limiting your behavior to the tiniest square of possibilities on one day in the week.

  I ran my hand across my forehead. I grinned as though I were a little embarrassed.

  I said, “Friday, of course. Sorry, jet lag. Forgotten what day it is, with all the travel. Shabbat tonight, of course.”

  Hinda Rochel smiled, but I felt an odd, hollow sensation inside, a sudden dissolution of all the pleasure I had taken in sorting through my father’s study. I felt an urge to take back what I had just said to Hinda Rochel. But I didn’t.

  Chapter Five

  Blessed are you, Hashem, our God, King of the universe, who is wise in secrets.

  A blessing spoken when one sees a great multitude of Jews gathered together

  There are those who believe all secrets to be guilty. If the truth is innocent, they declare, why can it not be revealed? The very existence of a secret indicates malice and wrongdoing. All should be open, all exposed.

  But why, if this is so, is God not only the God of truth, but also the God of secrets? Why is it written of Him that He shall surely hide His face? This world is a mask, and the mask hides a face, and the face is a secret, for it is the visage of the Almighty Whom we shall only come to know on our day of judgment when He reveals Himself to us. It has been taught that if the Lord were to lift only a tiny corner of His veil, to show us but the slightest glimpse of His truth, we should be blinded by brightness, color, and pain.

  From this we learn how facile it is to believe that all things should be known and revealed. We can observe this in our own lives. How often are we hurt by those who declare that they are “only speaking the truth”? Not all true thoughts must be spoken. How often do we witness others degrading themselves by revealing their emotions, experiences, and even the sacred places of their own bodies, when these things are not for all to gawk at? It is not necessary for all that exists to be seen.

  The more powerful a force, the more holy a place, the more truth there is in wisdom, the more these things should be private, deep, accessible only to those who have worked to attain them. Thus it is that Kabbalistic texts must include mistakes, so that only those with sufficient knowledge may penetrate their mysteries. Thus it is that a woman conceals her visits to the mikvah even from her closest friend, that her inward times and tides may remain private. Thus it is that a sacred Torah scroll is robed in a velvet garment.

  We should not rush to throw open doors, to allow light to shine on quiet places. For those who have seen the secret mysteries tell us not only of the beauty, but also of the pain. And certain things are better left unseen, and certain words unspoken.

  “Naturally, we must now consider,” said Hartog, “the hesped.” He rested one arm on the wooden rail around the bimah, breathing heavily, and surveyed the empty synagogue. He took in the orderly rows of chairs, and neat bookshelves, ready for the Friday evening services later in the day.

  Dovid closed his eyes, for the space of two or three heartbeats. He had awoken with a headache. He often experienced headaches—not always debilitating, but unaffected by any combination of tablets—which lent an indelible wash of color to his day. This headache was flaming blue. Tentacles of ice crept across his face from their nexus at his left temple. They stroked his cheek with an awful delicacy. One began to probe his ear, lovingly, the pain at first sharp, then gradually deeper and more blunt. He kept his features calm; to show discomfort would only encourage them.

  Opening his eyes, he realized that Hartog was waiting for a response. He had spoken of…a hesped? A slight blue film cast across Dovid’s left eye, striking a clear, high note. He made his mouth speak, noticing its rubbery elasticity.

  “A hesped? Yes, of course. I hadn’t thought…”

  Hartog was right. The funeral had been a close thing, a quiet thing, as is proper. Bones and blood should return to the earth as soon as the spirit leaves them. But for a leader like the Rav, there should be a hesped, at the end of the thirty days of mourning. There should be a gathering of those who knew the man, of his peers and his flock, to praise and to extol his memory.

  “Should I make the invitations?” Dovid asked. He glanced at the chairs behind the rail. He wanted to suggest that they sit down, but wondered if Hartog would consider that disrespectful to the memory of the Rav. The icy fingers were pressing more firmly now. His left eyeball was frozen solid; each blink sent a tremor across his face. It was difficult to concentrate on what Hartog was saying.

  “Leave it with me, Dovid, leave it with me.” Hartog smiled. “There is no need to bother yourself with the arrangements. There is one thing, though.”

  Hartog paused. The tip of a blue tentacle crossed Dovid’s left pupil and tapped on his frozen eye, making a faint scratching sound as it did so. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. The sound was quiet and nauseating. Hartog did not seem to notice.

  “And, Dovid,” he continued, “you should speak.” Dovid was silent, so Hartog spoke again. “At the hesped, Dovid, you sho
uld speak.”

  Hartog stretched, rolling his head from side to side. Dovid, looking with his one good eye, seemed to see his features become tinged with ochre.

  “I don’t…” Dovid said. “I don’t, I mean, I am not sufficiently senior. The honored guests will speak, surely?”

  “That is certainly true. But nonetheless, as you know perfectly well, you must speak.”

  Dovid gripped the bimah rail. The cold probe knocked more insistently on his eye. Harder and harder. It would break through at any moment. The eye was brittle, ice-rimed. He spoke quickly.

  “No. I don’t think so. There will be so many others…”

  “None of them knew him as you did, Dovid.” Hartog smiled.

  Dovid felt nauseous. He took two slow deep breaths and stared fixedly at the dark red carpet beneath his feet. This motion seemed to distract the pressure building in his eye, and he felt a little relief. He continued to look downward, as he said:

  “I am no Rav. The people—”

  Hartog spoke over him:

  “The people want continuity.” Hartog pursed his lips and took a half step toward Dovid. “I really do not understand why this simple request appears to pose a problem for you. The Rav, may his memory be blessed, is gone. For the congregation, this may come as a shock, but you and I know that it has been months in the waiting. You cannot, surely, be surprised now, that these duties are asked of you? It is time for you to accept the responsibilities that have been placed on your shoulders. We cannot be without a Rav.”

  Dovid looked up, jerking his neck as he did so. The frozen pain returned to his eye, his temple, his cheek and neck. He heard a loud crack, and the tentacle broke through. He felt his eye shatter. White lines crisscrossed his field of vision. A cobalt tendril was poking through his face, waving, softly, from side to side, slicing his muscles and nerves more and more finely with each pass.

  Hartog’s speech seemed to slow, his features suspended in odd contortions as he formed the words. Ah, Dovid thought, one of these. As he watched, glistening smears of yellow tweaked at Hartog’s face, pulling it outward, the color becoming stronger and brighter, blending and confusing it until all that remained were the man’s eyes, gleaming dark, amid a mass of throbbing poison-yellow. Dovid heard the yellow thrum in his ears, an insidious, electrical murmur.

  Dovid had experienced such moments before. They began the year he was thirteen, his bar mitzvah year, when the headaches he had always felt lingering beneath the surface began to blossom, one by one, across his skull, bringing with them orchestras of color, nauseating brightness.

  The Rav had attended Dovid’s bar mitzvah, in Manchester, had spoken to him for an hour or so privately, asking him about his studies and testing his understanding. And, in the summer after school had ended, the Rav had suggested to Dovid’s parents that Dovid might come and spend a little time in London, learning with his uncle. Dovid understood what this meant. The Rav had seven other nephews, each of whose bar mitzvahs the Rav had attended, but none of whom he had asked to come to London for the summer. The Rav had no son, only a daughter. He was a giant of Torah; it was important that he should have a successor, someone to whom he could pass on his teachings.

  Dovid understood that he was being prepared, that this selection was a special honor and that every measure of talent brings with it nine measures of work. He worked hard. In the mornings, Dovid would spend four or five hours sitting at the long dark-wood table in the Rav’s study, as they learned Gemarah together, the Rav explaining difficult words or constructions in a low, quiet voice, the smell of cedarwood and old books tickling Dovid’s nostrils. In the afternoons he prepared for the next day’s lessons in his bedroom, the volume propped up with a large, heavy can of plums he’d found in the kitchen. He worried about using the can in this way; was it too profane to touch the Gemarah? But surely it was better to hold the book up with something than to let it stand unsupported, and perhaps fall to the floor? He had a constant, nagging fear that the Rav might surprise him in his room and discover the plum book stand. He would listen for the footfall on the landing. More often than not, it would not be the Rav, but Ronit.

  She was then eight years old, with too much energy, too much exuberance for the quiet of the Rav’s house. The house was a place for meditation, for thought, and, yes, for angry debate over words of Torah as well. Ronit did not seem to understand that raised voices and passionate argument should be reserved for Torah matters, that they were inappropriate in other interactions. She always seemed to be shouting out every thought that crossed her mind. “I’m hungry!” or “I’m tired!” or “I’m bored!” That last was the most common of all. She seemed unable to entertain herself, and once she had discovered that Dovid would participate in her games, she claimed that she could not possibly play without him. She created elaborate games of “let’s pretend” in which she was always the hero, and Dovid the villain or the sidekick. She would set him to be Isaac, while she was Abraham, gleefully raising the set square that stood for the sacrificial knife, before the angel of the Lord stayed her hand. Or he would be Aharon, following behind her, while she—as Moses—hit rocks with a stick, then frowned at them because they did not produce water. Or he would be Goliath, roaring as she, the young shepherd-boy David, circled around, hefting pebbles in a handkerchief. In that instance, after a time, it seemed to her that Goliath might be as good a part, and she took both roles, first mocking the Israelites with her great strength, then becoming their fearless champion. All that afternoon, studying in his bedroom, Dovid heard her shouting:

  “You will never defeat me, for I am a giant!”

  And replying:

  “No, Goliath, I will smite you and cut off your head!”

  It was during one such game that Dovid experienced his first full attack. A headache had been buzzing around him since the morning, seeking to alight. He had warded it off with shade and quiet, lying very still on his bed, drinking slow glasses of water. But Ronit dragged him into the glaring afternoon. She was to be Gidon; he could be one of the disloyal soldiers who desert before the final battle. He stood awaiting her commands and felt the pain descend on his shoulders, before seeping up his neck, like ink into blotting paper, up into the bones of his face and his skull. His head grew warmer, brighter, concentrating all the heat of the day, of the sun, into a single, radiant, white-hot thumbprint above his left eye. His skull, soft and heavy, began to disintegrate. He looked about him as the grass, the apple trees, the hydrangeas became painfully vivid, the colors oversaturated and nauseating. He saw Ronit, suddenly, covered in a swarm of metallic-tasting purple sparks, flying like embers into a glittering sky. He gasped and fell.

  They were worried for him. Ronit ran for help. The housekeeper put him to bed. The coolness of his pillow engulfed him in an ice cream calm; he wanted to lick or embrace it, but could not move.

  The next morning, when he awoke, he found that the Rav was sitting by his bedside, perched uncomfortably on a stool in the little bedroom, his black coat bunched beneath him. Looking back, Dovid could understand that the Rav must have been afraid for his health. The fact that he had sat for so many hours waiting for him to wake betrayed a concern he had been unable to perceive at the time. As a child, Dovid had felt merely humiliated by the man’s presence, ashamed of his own bodily weakness. His mind wandered erratically, even that morning. The can of plums had been placed to one side, the Gemarah closed. Dovid wondered who had done so, but could not hold on to his concern; his attention seemed distracted by small details. He noticed the incredible blueness of the veins in the Rav’s hands and wrists as he gripped the book, a small semicircular spiderweb clouding the corner of the window, a white mark on the knee of the Rav’s left trouser leg. They learned for only an hour that morning. The Rav proceeded more slowly than usual, asking gently if he had understood, waiting for his answers.

  At the end of that hour, the Rav closed the book. Dovid thought he would leave the room, but he did not. He simply sat for several momen
ts in silence. He removed his glasses and pressed finger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. At last, he said:

  “Tell me what happened yesterday. Each detail, please, as exact as possible.”

  Dovid tried to explain: the headache, the heat, and the purple. The Rav leaned forward, tenting his fingers, and asked him to repeat, slowly, the description of what he had seen around Ronit. He should take his time. Did the color seem to emanate from the girl, or was it all-pervading? Did he hear anything, a voice, perhaps? What was the taste? How vivid? Was he certain he had not imagined it? Or dreamed it, perhaps?

  Dovid saw the scene again in his mind: the violet swarm, the sharp metallic tang.

  “No. I saw it. I didn’t dream it.” He paused, then said, “I was scared.” He wondered if he had done something wrong. He asked for a glass of water. The Rav poured him one from the jug at his bedside and watched him gulp it down. Dovid felt some water drip onto his chin. He was ashamed to behave so crudely in front of the Rav. But when he looked up, he saw that the older man’s eyes were closed.

  Eventually, after a long pause, the Rav opened his eyes, pursed his pale lips, and spoke.

  “Dovid,” said the Rav, “this is a very subtle experience of the soul. But you should not be fearful. The Torah and our sages speak of experiences like this.”

  Dovid was very quiet.

  “We learn that at Mount Sinai, when our forefathers received the Torah, God spoke to them directly, face-to-face.” He smiled, suddenly, a great beaming smile across his face. “Can you imagine it! To be addressed by the Kodesh Boruch Hu Himself! The chachamim teach that the experience was overwhelming; it mingled one sense with another. The Children of Israel saw the words. They tasted them, they smelled them. They heard colors, and saw sounds. Confronted with this inhuman burden, they fainted.