The Beautiful Possible

by Amy Gottlieb

  “I am,” says Morris. “But he’s too mystical for me. I can’t figure him out.”

  Rosalie closes her eyes for a moment and remembers Heschel’s lecture, and how Sol smiled at her for the first time. She glances at Walter and then turns to Morris.

  “Isn’t that your job from now on? To understand people?”

  Morris laughs. “When I graduate I become a rabbi. Here I am still a boy, a fountain pen, an ingénue in the ways of God.”

  Walter turns to Rosalie and whispers in her ear. “That’s the problem,” he says. “No enlightenment. Rabbis like Morris with their picayune questions. How can a tea bag open a door to transcendence?”

  “Ah,” says Rosalie. She pulls a bag of Swee-Touch-Nee from her pocketbook and immerses it in her water glass. First a blush, then a darkening stain, then saturation.

  Rosalie smiles. “Transcendence in a glass.”

  “But you haven’t answered my question,” says Morris. “The pouring of the water is what matters, not your little home economics demonstration.”

  “Jewish life is home ec,” says Rosalie. “Who is going to make Shabbat for you when you graduate, Morris?”

  “That’s enough, Rosalie.” He moves to another table and the other students follow.

  Walter and Rosalie are alone.

  “She’elah,” says Walter. “If a woman learns with men will they be seduced by her presence in the beit midrash?”

  “Teshuvah,” says Rosalie. “The woman will be permitted to learn with the men if she agrees not to speak. After all, her voice may arouse and distract them from their holy Torah.”

  “Why don’t you sit next to me in the Radish’s class? I could use a companion.”

  “No women allowed,” says Rosalie.

  “I can ask. Your fiancé would be proud to have you as his audience. The Radish calls him an ilui, a Talmudic prodigy.”

  “My handsome genius.”

  “Your Sol is a man of deep faith,” says Walter.

  “One of us has to be,” says Rosalie.

  After he finishes serving, Sol sits beside Walter, grabs a fork, and helps himself to the leftover chicken on Walter’s plate.

  “How about we find a coveted place for Rosalie in the Radish’s class?” asks Walter.

  “That,” says Sol, “will never be permitted.”

  Rosalie turns to him. “You’re the one who is refusing me.”

  “Of course not,” he says. “I’d love for you to be in my class. You would be so proud of me.”

  “We will test it out,” says Walter. “If you don’t ask the Radish, I will. I’m the treasured guest—he won’t say no to me.”

  “Okay with you, Sol?” asks Rosalie.

  He reaches over and kisses her cheek.

  “If that’s what you want.”

  The Seminary attic is cluttered with books and papers waiting for burial—faded prayer books with missing pages, a volume of Talmud munched on by bugs, discarded source sheets, solicitation letters inscribed with biblical verses that were never mailed. Prayer shawls are strewn about, some with holes, some never worn. Just like in the dorm rooms, mice scurry everywhere. In a corner, a Torah scroll lies on a low table, properly covered with a suit jacket that Walter borrows when one of the rabbis scolds him for improper dress.

  The attic has become Walter’s sleeping loft. He has named it the geniza, a holding place for cast-off sacred books, which he has begun to sort and shelve into an organized library. After class he invites Sol for a tour. “It’s the place,” says Walter, “where the dead visit on Mondays and Thursdays to read Torah, enlighten me, and then return to the World to Come.”

  The floor is littered with books and Sol is reluctant to step over them.

  “I can’t walk on a prayer book,” he says. “I’ll look from here.”

  Walter takes Sol’s hand. “Trust me,” he says. “I won’t let you tread all over your holy words. I’ll keep my rabbi fit for his profession.”

  Walter points out the books he shelved. “Look at my feat of organization. Rashi here, mysticism over there, Talmudic responsa in this corner.”

  “Did you bring me up here to show off how you’ve progressed in your learning?”

  Walter sits against a wall, opens a file drawer, and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. Sol sidles up beside him.

  “Yours?”

  “Someone shares it with me. Every time I check, it’s down a bit. One of your rabbis.”

  “And yours.”

  “Ha!” says Walter. “This is your world, not mine.”

  “Why don’t you talk about what happened?” asks Sol. “All the students are trying to figure out how you escaped from Berlin, traveled to India, and wound up here, with us.”

  Walter offers the bottle to Sol who takes a swig and passes it back.

  “What are you looking for, Sol? A tale of suffering so you can try out your pastoral skills before you graduate?”

  “It’s not that—”

  “What’s motivating your great curiosity? A tad of voyeurism, perhaps? Or maybe I can give you a way to test-drive your compassion—extra sweet because you get the full package in one story. So here it is, my friend. When she was shot, her wetness was still fresh on my hands. Both of us so tender. Had she not been killed with my father we all would have probably been gassed by now. I am your living symbol—”

  “Stop,” says Sol.

  “No. Take it all. Take my life. Take it so you can seem learned, wiser, so you can pretend to be a real rabbi who has seen something outside the four cubits of your small American life. No one will dare call you a thief if you use my material for your sermons.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m only trying—”

  “You have no idea that you mock me. You actually believe you can offer me consolation. I find that incomprehensible.”

  “I want to help,” says Sol.

  “What do you see when you look at me? A lost man wearing a cotton tunic in the middle of winter? An emblem of tragedy you can use to test out some kind of theology? Even now, you are thinking of a way to offer some comfort, show off your rabbinic talents.”

  “I’m not vulgar,” says Sol.

  “And I’m not one of your teachers, preparing you to lead a deluded flock. I’m a guest here. And I couldn’t care less about your profession.”

  “But I care,” says Sol. “Deeply.”

  “That’s obvious,” says Walter. “So go ahead. Practice your craft. Offer me your best words.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Of course you can. Go ahead.”

  “Your fiancée who was shot,” says Sol. “You will chase her all your days. She calls to you from the World to Come.”

  “Oh! That’s a good one. Home run on your first time out, rabbi.”

  “I’m not insincere,” says Sol.

  “I can see that.”

  Sol inches closer to Walter. “You could be one of us too.”

  “I hold nothing of your wisdom.”

  “I was cruel,” says Sol. “I’m sorry.”

  “You will be a good rabbi,” says Walter. “And I understand. Honestly, I do.”

  They pass the whiskey bottle in silence. I went too far, thinks Sol. I will lose him if I’m not careful. Keep your chavrusa close to you always, his father had said. Do not let the flame of your learning burn out with time or misunderstanding. Let it be a marriage for you. Never be mean, always be loving—

  Sol takes the last swig and lets the bottle roll on the floor. Walter turns to Sol and takes his face in his hands, bringing their noses to touch. The gesture is one of apology. Walter is just about to let go when Sol grabs his cheeks and kisses him.

  Sol’s lips tremble against Walter’s and he closes his eyes. Walter lays his hands on top of Sol’s, removes them from his cheeks, and holds them together.

  “This, my rabbi,” says Walter. “This is not meant for you.”

  Sol pulls away and covers his face with his hands.

  “Of course not,” says
Sol. “I lost myself.”

  He brushes himself off and steps toward the door.

  “I was mistaken. I’m sorry—”

  “It’s all right,” says Walter. “I understand.”

  Sol closes the door behind him and sits at the top of the staircase, resting his head in his palms. Of course Walter understands. The refugee knows me too well, he thinks. Sol imagines Walter leading him by the hand through an intricate palace made of Hebrew words. You don’t need language to find your way through these rooms, he says. You can leave your conjugations behind; no need to know Aramaic, no need for your Jastrow dictionary.

  Sol listens to the traffic of students milling about in the hallway and shifts his body to the side of the stair so he won’t cast a shadow.

  She’elah: Can the body ask one question and the mind another?

  Teshuvah: As God is one, the mind and the body are one.

  Alone in the attic that night, Walter lies on the floor and gazes at the ceiling as he once gazed at the night stars in the fields of Shantiniketan. No one had intruded on him at the ashram; no one had tried to claim him as a fellow Jew. He could learn philosophy without the spitfire of Talmudic debate; he could digest the language of the spirit without a chavrusa leaning in for a kiss. And yet when Sol’s lips pressed against his, Walter knew that this kiss was not a whiskey-hazed indiscretion, but a declaration of love. Sol’s yearnings may have been misplaced, but Walter feels touched by his audacity.

  He listens to the mice scurrying beneath the floorboards. Earned time, he thinks. The afterlife, the footnote. The students’ faces are question marks, asking everything of him. Be one of us, deliver the goods, enlighten us, or confess! Who are you, Walter? What kind of Jew are you? Speak when you are ready; open the gate: Rabbi Walter omer. He does not belong in this building, his way station to some vague future. Soothe me with the words of the Song, Sonia had said. Walter, please. Promise me we will go home. Walter lays his ear to the floorboards and listens to the laughter of the students in the hallway beneath the attic, their voices erupting with a joy he will never understand.

  The next day, Sol rushes along Riverside Drive, muttering Talmudic phrases to himself. Rosalie trails behind, then sprints and grabs his hand.

  “Slow down, sweetheart.”

  “I need to get back and study.”

  “Talk to me, Sol. I can’t marry a man who has his thoughts parked elsewhere.”

  He slows down. “I’m sorry. Of course you can’t.”

  “Why don’t you tell me,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Everything. All the details. What you are learning, how one becomes a rabbi, something. Anything. I need to prepare for your Talmud class.”

  “So much doesn’t translate.”

  “You make it sound like a secret society.”

  “It’s not a cabal,” he says.

  “But it is! Hebrew and Aramaic are your secret keys to the treasures that you twist around to make an argument. You use your implied wisdom to manipulate people into believing what cannot be proven.”

  “You sound crass.”

  “Look, you knew my father. One can be skeptical and still embrace a daring life of faith. And I don’t say this without love.”

  “I have found a wise woman. Your price is above rubies.”

  “Don’t toss me your rabbi lines. You haven’t even earned the title yet.”

  “Rosalie, what—”

  She puts a finger to his lips. “If you see me as a threat we won’t get very far. I’m on your side, sweetheart; I’m marrying you.”

  Sol kisses her finger and takes her hand. He remembers how their arms touched at the Heschel lecture and how he literally felt a spark binding them together. Their courtship began so simply: a tinge of desire that felt inevitable. And his desire for Walter started off simply too—the lifelong bond of a true chavrusa—and then he corrupted it with a thoughtless gesture, a mistaken kiss, a mistranslation. He had been listening with his deaf ear and misunderstood what was said. But no more.

  “Thank God,” says Sol.

  Rosalie smiles. “My handsome ilui. It’s going to be fun, driving off to the suburbs in a new car, starting a shul—”

  “I was thinking about a Dodge. Morris has a friend who owns a dealership.”

  “A Dodge is fine,” says Rosalie. “As long as you’re honest with me.”

  “Then let me become the rabbi I am meant to be. The next few months are demanding.”

  “So we will only speak of china patterns and the make of our car?”

  “And the number of children you want. I still say three will be enough.”

  “And I always wanted four,” says Rosalie. “Happy and layered and crowded with laughter, tables laden with food, the clanging of dishes, small hands wiping against my skirt. That’s what I want.”

  “You,” says Sol, “are all I want.”

  Rosalie and Walter sit together in the back row. The Radish has warned his students never to tell anyone that he invited a woman to his Talmud class, and he asked each man to seal his promise in the Talmudic way, holding one end of a handkerchief while the Radish held the other.

  Sol sits up front. He is the Radish’s pet student, the first to volunteer to read, the one who understands the precise meaning of the most obscure Aramaic phrases. At first Sol turns back and winks at Rosalie, but he doesn’t want to make eye contact with Walter, so he stares straight ahead at the Radish, allowing his mind to tether to his teacher’s words.

  Walter and Rosalie pass notes: he draws a sketch of the Radish, passes it to Rosalie, who adds eyeglasses, styles a beard, earrings, a hat. In each class they draw more variations of the Radish until they fill an entire notepad with drawings of the Radish as a woman, the Radish fully naked, the Radish as a goat, the Radish as two goats having sex, the Radish as a radish. When he passes notes to her, Rosalie admires Walter’s long fingers. One afternoon she writes him a note that has nothing to do with the Radish, folds it slowly into quarters, and passes it to him under the desk.

  With fingers like that you could be a pianist.

  Walter writes back.

  I am a sketcher, a dreamer, a lost man.

  Rosalie takes the note, crosses out lost and replaces it with found.

  Walter writes back, I believe Sol has a meeting with the placement commission today. Meet me at the top of the stairs after class. I want to show you something.

  Walter is waiting for her, his head balanced in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. She sits beside him and can smell the spices on his breath. After a few moments, he takes her hand, opens the door to the attic, and begins his tour. She pauses at the section of Hasidic books and pulls out a volume.

  “Ah! The Ishbitzer,” she says. “The Mei HaShiloach. My father taught me this.” She reads: “When a man yearns for something, he should see that the object of his desire is the will of God.”

  “What if the man has no God?”

  “Let desire be your God,” says Rosalie.

  “That works for me,” says Walter.

  Rosalie points out the letters crowding the page. “This is easier than learning Talmud.”

  Walter takes the book from her hands and turns it upside down. When he shakes the pages, a single sprig of faded freesia drops onto the floor. He picks it up, sniffs, and carefully tucks it behind her ear.

  She runs her fingers along the spines of the books and Walter’s long fingers follow hers.

  “I can teach you how to understand these books,” she says.

  “My Hebrew is miserable. I can play games with the text but I make up the meanings.”

  Rosalie laughs. “That’s half of it. These rabbis were playing games too. They were creating a new art form.”

  She pulls out a random book and points to a word. “Look. Here’s the shoresh, the root. And then you have a starting place. The seed of the concept.”

  “You should be a rabbi,” says Walter.

  “Ha! The daughter of a rabbi ma
rries a rabbi. That’s how it goes. A link in a chain.”

  “You can be my rabbi,” says Walter. He opens a file drawer and pulls out a fresh bottle of whiskey.

  “Is this where you and Sol come to study?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Now you know.”

  “The secrets of men.”

  “I come here when I want to be alone. I sleep here most nights.”

  “I’ll buy you better bedding,” she says. “This is America! No need to sleep under a dirty, frayed blanket—”

  “Don’t tell Sol I brought you here.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  Rosalie brushes her lips against Walter’s and waits for him to respond. The first kiss is soft, nothing declarative. A dip in the waters. Walter’s kiss bears no reminder of Sol; his thumbs rest lightly on her neck and welcome her to a new country.

  He pulls away. “We can’t—”

  “Of course not,” she says.

  Walter stands, extends his hand, and pulls Rosalie to her feet. They kiss again.

  “That’s enough,” he says.

  “More than enough.” She rests her head on his shoulder.

  “Sol,” she says.

  “Sol,” he echoes.

  “This never happened.”

  Walter rests his fingers in Rosalie’s hair and smiles.

  “I will leave first,” he says. “Wait several moments and close the door behind you.”

  She starts to say something but then stops and waits for Walter to walk out the door.

  That night Rosalie lies awake in her childhood bed and counts the days until she will say goodbye to the only mattress she has ever known. She imagines all her girlhood fantasies lodged within the bed’s casing: Her longings to shrink herself into a girl tiny enough to jump onto the pages of her father’s books, swim through the words, wrap her legs around the letters. Her yearning to know Hebrew as fluently as her father did, and Aramaic, and a few words of Ancient Greek. Her wish, when she was eight, for a Shetland pony that she could ride from one end of Brooklyn to the other. Her desire for a first kiss, practiced on the back of her hand for so many years. That desire vanished when Sol kissed her the first time and she closed her eyes and tasted him and believed he was meant for her. Her dreams of marriage and children, how she would crowd a table with more laughter than her own parents did: four children at least, how she would kiss their heads and hold their small fingers as they drifted off to sleep. And then there were the dreams within the dreams: the pony’s name (Spangle), the Hebrew letter she would wrap her legs around (lamed), how she would stand on a bench on upper Fifth Avenue and recite Hebrew poetry with perfect fluency. Rosalie wraps her arms around herself and then reaches under her nightgown, feeling Walter’s fingers resting on hers and then departing, as they travel across her belly and thighs, circling until they arrive. She knows her body well and holds out until she imagines Walter inside of her and then she bursts into tears.