Disobedience

by Naomi Alderman

  Well, I guess she has to say that. She’d be out of a job if everyone in New York suddenly decided that silence was the answer.

  In New York, life, my life, is full of noise. If I open the window, I can hear the chatter of the people, the growl of traffic below. Wherever I go, shopping in Gristedes or Duane Reade, riding the subway, even standing in an elevator, there’ll be music or someone trying to sell me something. I like to leave the TV babbling to itself while I’m eating or getting dressed or reading. I’m just not used to silence anymore. Which is perhaps why I found the few days Dovid was away so weird.

  I went back to Esti and Dovid’s house. I slept there every night; it had become clear to me when I saw my old bedroom filled with piles of detritus that there was no room for me there. In Esti and Dovid’s house there was, at least, space to breathe. And, after the first night, I plucked up courage to go back when I thought Esti might still be awake. But she wouldn’t talk to me. More than that, she wouldn’t be in the same room as me or, for preference, on the same floor. If I came downstairs, she’d wait until I’d gone into the living room or the kitchen and then scurry upstairs to hide in her bedroom. If I went upstairs, she’d race back down again. Once, I trapped her in the entrance hall. I waited in the living room until I heard her emerge from the kitchen and the creaky floorboard in the hall squeaked, and then I sprang out. I said, “Esti, don’t you think we should…”

  She stared at me for maybe a couple of seconds, and I thought, hey, we’re going to manage a conversation. And she ran into the little bathroom just off the hall. She stayed there for forty-eight minutes. I timed it. When she finally did reemerge, she made straight for the kitchen and locked herself in. I thought of walking up to the door and shouting, “You know, Esti, this is neither a healthy nor a mature way of dealing with rejection.” But I didn’t.

  I spent the next week at my father’s house, arriving early in the mornings and not returning until the evenings. I couldn’t go into my old bedroom, I just couldn’t make myself, but I went through the things in my father’s bedroom, and the boxes in Dovid’s room. I wasn’t sure what to do with my discoveries. Was there an organization out there that might be interested in a huge archive of Judaism-related newspaper articles dating from the 1940s to the late nineties? How about the old clothes, the paperbacks, the kitchenware so old it might actually now be retro-chic? I accumulated another small pile of items I might want: a few books, some more photographs, but I still hadn’t found the candlesticks.

  When I returned in the evenings, Esti had left food for me in the kitchen; I thought of asking her not to do so, telling her I could fend for myself, but I knew that leaving such a note would upset her, and actually discussing the matter was clearly impossible. In any case, the food was good and I was grateful. So, every evening, I helped myself to a bowl of whatever had been left out in the kitchen, glad at least to be in a place where the indications of life continued, however faintly.

  And on Thursday night, the night before Dovid arrived back from Manchester, we had a visitor. As usual, Esti had eaten before I arrived back and was in her bedroom. I’d taken a plate of spaghetti Bolognese to the living room and was eating it while flicking through the newspaper, mourning the lack of television to make solitary meals less oppressive. I could hear the sound of the newspaper turning, my fork picking up the food, my chewing and swallowing. On the mantelpiece, a large and ornate clock ticked loudly (a gift from the Sara Rifka Hartog Memorial Day School to Miss Bloomfield on the occasion of her marriage, the plaque read). Each tick seemed like a word uttered into the quiet of the house, a spoken thing created and then dropped to fall back into the ocean of silence. I wondered, looking at the clock, whether all this silence might not be having a bad effect on me.

  The doorbell rang, shrill and shocking. I stayed where I was; it wasn’t my house, after all. A few seconds passed and I couldn’t hear any movement from upstairs. Maybe Esti was afraid that I’d try to get it, and she’d also try to get it, and we might actually encounter each other and have to speak. The bell rang again. I felt suddenly irritated with Esti. Clearly I wasn’t going to be having visitors, particularly unexpected ones at nine p.m. on a Thursday. So either it was some friend of hers or Dovid’s, or a man visiting every house with a mezuzah to collect for some Jewish charity. Regardless, it was really her responsibility. There were three sharp taps on the door, as though the caller were unconvinced by the bell. Still no noise from upstairs. I put down my paper and went to answer the door.

  Hartog was standing on the doorstep. He was smartly dressed, navy blue pinstripe, burgundy tie, a black leather folder in his hand. He looked as though he were about to attend a board meeting. He said:

  “Good evening, Miss Krushka, I hope this isn’t too late to call?”

  I realized that I was standing at the door in a pair of jogging bottoms, and a T-shirt reading LOUD WOMAN with a tomato sauce stain down the front. I said:

  “No, no, it’s fine, come in.”

  He nodded, walked into the living room, surveyed the different seating options, chose the least frayed armchair, and sat down, crossing one well-tailored trouser leg over the other. He placed the black leather folder on the coffee table next to him and allowed his hand to rest on it, relaxed. As though he owned the place, I thought, as though it belonged to him.

  He paused. I waited. We looked at each other for a strained, silent moment.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Hartog?”

  Hartog leaned back into the armchair and stretched his neck, swiveling his head from side to side. He took his time. He said:

  “We were surprised to see you last week, you know.” He raised his eyebrows a little. “I hope we didn’t make you feel unwelcome. Dovid hadn’t mentioned to us that you were here, although of course, Dovid…”

  He left the sentence unfinished, making a sweeping gesture with his arm as he did so, as if inviting me to take in all that I saw around me and understand that this went to answer the question of Dovid.

  I sat down, folding my arms. Damned if I was going to stand around like his secretary. I said:

  “No, Hartog, you can rest assured that I enjoyed myself very much. I can’t remember, in fact, having enjoyed a Friday night dinner quite so much as that.”

  Hartog narrowed his eyes slightly and pursed his lips. He seemed about to say something, and then thought better of it. He gripped the black folder. He said:

  “Well, then, to business.”

  “Business?”

  He reached over, placed the folder on his knee, and opened it. Inside, the contents were meticulously ordered, documents in clear plastic folders with labeled tabs identifying each one. It was a slim file, perhaps only thirty or forty pieces of paper in it. I tried to read the top one upside down, but he tipped it away from me so that all I saw was DEED.

  “There are a number of purely administrative matters that we ought to clear up, pursuant to your father’s death,” he said, flicking through the folder. “I hope it’s not too distressing for you to discuss at this time?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, then.” Hartog gently pulled out the first in his collection of documents and handed it to me. It was the deed to my father’s house. “If you will direct your attention to page five,” he said, his tone measured, professional, “you will notice that the registered owner of the house is the synagogue board.”

  I nodded. Hartog looked at me, as though expecting more of a reaction. Perhaps he’d thought this news would come as a shock. I wasn’t shocked. My father had explained it to me years ago; the synagogue owns the house, the Rav lives in it. Perfectly normal practice. What were they going to do, accuse me of trespassing on their property? I studied the deed for a few moments and handed it back to Hartog.

  “Presumably you’ll be removing the house contents before the new Rav is chosen, then?” I said.

  Hartog looked at me.

  “You needn’t worry,” I continued, “there are only a few thi
ngs I want. I’ll be finished soon.”

  Hartog smiled.

  “I’m glad you raised that matter, Miss Krushka.” He replaced the deed in his folder and began flipping again as he spoke. “The contents of the house, of course, belonged to the Rav. His collection of Talmudic books, largely donated by friends from across the world, was particularly fine. But you know this.”

  I nodded.

  Hartog smiled again and removed a second sheet from his file, placing it on the table in front of me with the air of a poker player revealing a winning hand.

  “This is the Rav’s will, properly signed and witnessed. As you can see, he leaves the contents of the house, all the contents, to the synagogue.”

  He looked at me.

  “Now, Miss Krushka, I understand that you have been visiting your late father’s house and are intending to remove some items.”

  I thought of Hinda Rochel Berditcher, who works for Hartog and whose lipstick always seems to stain her teeth red. I thought of the friendly visit on Sunday.

  “I must tell you,” Hartog continued, still smiling faintly, “that as a representative of the synagogue, not to mention”—he looked down—“a great admirer of your late father, I would consider it a dereliction of my duty were I to allow you to remove synagogal property from his residence. I’m afraid that I cannot permit it.”

  He looked at me. The clock kindly presented by the Sara Rifka Hartog Memorial Day School ticked. The silence between us grew and resounded until I could almost hear it, a slow and steady heartbeat of silence.

  “What do you want, Hartog?”

  He wrinkled his brow.

  “What do I want, Miss Krushka? Nothing more than to do my duty as an elected officer of the synagogue.”

  Bullshit, I wanted to say, bull-fucking-shit. I dug my nails into the arm of the chair. I waited. He’d have to come out with it, whatever it was.

  Hartog rearranged one or two pages in his folder. His hands were steady. I thought about what a wealthy man Hartog was. Does wealth do this for you? Does being wealthy give a person this capability, to say anything to another human being, never to feel even slightly concerned that you might one day need their assistance? Hartog, apparently satisfied with the order of his documents, looked back up at me.

  “There is one other matter we should discuss, though,” he said. “As you know, we are arranging a hesped for the end of the month of mourning—two weeks away, in fact. Many distinguished rabbonim will be joining us from across the world. Your father was a well-respected, much-loved man.”

  I nodded. I’d already heard some of the plans from Dovid.

  “We, that is the synagogue board and I, very much want this hesped to be a fitting memorial to your father, to his religious and spiritual legacy. We want to avoid unnecessary difficulties, do you see? We would like the event to run smoothly.”

  He looked at me levelly, as though trying to assess whether I had followed him so far. I looked back. I had an idea of what was coming next; I wasn’t going to say it for him.

  “We would prefer it, the synagogue board would prefer it, if you did not attend the hesped.” He paused. “In exchange, we are prepared to allow you to remove whatever personal items, reminders of your father and so on, you wish from the house.”

  Hartog looked back up at me. His face was calm, showing no hint of worry or agitation. I wondered how long he’d been planning this speech.

  “So, let me just be sure I’ve understood you,” I said. “You don’t want me to go to my own father’s memorial service, and you’re bribing me not to by offering to give me some things that are mine by right anyway?”

  “I wouldn’t like to use the word ‘bribe,’ Miss Krushka. I think we can both agree that for the good of the community…”

  I was angry now.

  “What? What is supposed to happen to the community if I attend the hesped?”

  “Well,” he said, spreading his arms wide again, smiling that faint, supercilious smile, “we don’t need to go into that, do we? There have been certain rumors, Miss Krushka, certain pieces of information that you yourself do not deny. Of course, the synagogue board does not listen to lashon hara, but as you have admitted the matter yourself…well, it would simply be inappropriate. Surely you can see that?”

  “Inappropriate because I told you I was gay?”

  Hartog’s smile disappeared.

  “No, Miss Krushka, inappropriate because, in the past four days, seven other people have told me so. You are becoming somewhat…notorious. We wish the hesped to be a quiet and joyful celebration of the Rav’s life, not”—he paused—“a circus of freaks.”

  I became very calm at that. I began to think what a profoundly punchable face Hartog has, how his nose sits in the middle, so round, so like a target.

  I almost laughed.

  I said, “You know, you can’t make this go away by making me go away. I’ll be gone in a few weeks, anyway, but it’s not me, Hartog, I’m not your problem.”

  “Really?” said Hartog. “It is strange, then, that this problem seems to have arrived just as you did. I would call that a coincidence. Would you not, Miss Krushka?”

  We looked at each other. I thought of telling him everything then, to explain to him how his perfect little world could never be perfect. That they weren’t going to be able to make unsettling things go away by closing their eyes and believing they weren’t there. I thought of telling him that it had never been perfect here at all, not even a little bit, and I had the evidence to prove it. But honestly, he wouldn’t have understood. He wouldn’t and Hinda Rochel wouldn’t, and the members of the synagogue board wouldn’t. Like Dr. Feingold says, you can only save yourself.

  I said, “And you don’t think it’s ‘inappropriate’ to hold a memorial service without the Rav’s family?”

  Hartog waved an arm. “Dovid will be there, of course, and the Rav’s sister, possibly his brother will fly over from Jerusalem. The family will be represented, you need not concern yourself with that.”

  My right hand involuntarily curled into a fist.

  “So what is it, exactly, that you want me to do?”

  Hartog leaned back in his chair. He stretched his neck again, moving his head slowly from side to side.

  “We would like you to leave quietly just before the hesped. There’s no need to make it dramatic. You could simply say that some matters have come up at work requiring your attention. You will have to rearrange your travel plans, of course. We understand that this may incur some expenses, which we are quite willing to reimburse, as well as compensating you for your trouble.”

  He turned to the back of his folder and produced a check, which he held between thumb and forefinger.

  “As you’ll see, we feel we’re being more than generous.”

  He passed me the check. I looked at it. £20,000. About $33,000. More than enough to cover twenty return flights to New York. I noticed that although Hartog had spoken as “we,” the check didn’t come from the synagogue account; it was from his own personal account, signed in broad, firm strokes, Dr. Hartog. Clearly, Hartog was bankrolling this little scheme himself, however much he wanted to present it as being the will of the community.

  I turned the check over in my hands.

  “And you wouldn’t like to use the word ‘bribe,’ Hartog?”

  Hartog thinned his lips. His face, I noticed, had become more white. “I don’t think that would be appropriate, no.”

  “So what if I refuse? What if I decide to attend the hesped?”

  Hartog breathed in sharply.

  “Don’t you understand?” he said. “You would be bringing shame on everyone, and for no purpose. No one wants you here. Most of the people barely remember you, and for those who do you are nothing but an embarrassment. Can you imagine how difficult it is for Esti and Dovid to have you here? To be spoken of in this way? Can’t you see? They are much-respected members of the community. They have a place here, and you”—he paused—“you I’m sur
e have a place somewhere else.”

  He looked down at his hands, then back up at me.

  “Miss Krushka,” he said. “Ronit, I believe that we, the synagogue board and I, have made you a very generous offer. We are simply protecting our community, your father’s legacy. I don’t understand, I really don’t understand, why you want to come here after all this time and attack us. Surely you have made a life for yourself in New York? It seems a more, a more appropriate place for you. We simply want to live in our accustomed way, as, I’m sure, you do.”

  My first instinct, of course, was to tell Hartog that both he and his check could go to hell. I wasn’t going to be dictated to, or told where I could and couldn’t go, where I was and wasn’t wanted. But as I looked at him, with his punchable face, and his smug, supercilious smile, I found myself thinking: no. This is not my fight. Hartog’s right about that, at least, I left here a long time ago precisely because of this kind of bullshit. Instead of fighting, I could pretend that Hartog and I are both civilized people, I could take the things that I wanted from the house, get on a plane, and go. I could just leave. After all, I’ve done it before. And instead of punching Hartog, I found myself saying:

  “Can you give me a little time to think it over?”

  Hartog nodded, as though this were the outcome he had anticipated, and closed his folder.

  I followed Hartog to the door and let him out. He walked briskly away, calm and assured, swinging his black leather folder in one hand. I stood at the door, watching him until he was out of sight. I turned back into the house and, as I did so, caught a glimpse of movement and heard a sound on the stairs. I looked up and saw Esti, sitting toward the top of the staircase, arms hugged around her knees, watching and listening. Her face was pale and her eyes were endless black.