by Yael Levy
Rachel rolled her eyes. “Do we have to go through this discussion again?”
Really, what was to discuss? She knew what each person had to say; she could probably repeat the whole dialogue without even being there. She wished she could have a conversation with someone who was open to ideas, open to changing his opinion if swayed by a good argument. But she also knew she could keep dreaming. She’d never yet met a person like that in Brooklyn.
Debby cut the tension. “I’m getting a headache from you lawyers arguing even when you all agree. We should be getting back. I have lunch warming on the stove.”
Abe acquiesced. “Sure, Debby, we should be getting back.” He smiled at Suri. “Thanks so much for your lovely kiddush, Suri. Delicious as always.”
Michael retrieved their coats amidst farewells, and the Shines walked home.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hindy lifted her brush from the old dresser she shared with three other sisters. Sometimes she fantasized that she was already married and had her own dresser that she didn’t have to share with anyone. But she quickly pushed that thought out of her mind, as she wasn’t one to dream. She glanced at her sturdy Timex watch, the one she had bought herself with her first paycheck three years before. It was nearly time for her Shabbos visit to the hospital.
As she brushed her hair, Hindy glanced at the initials embedded in her brush — H.B. — the same as the ancestor she was named for. She didn’t have it easy. Maybe the bad luck comes from the name. She sighed. With each stroke of the brush, Hindy thought of the story her mother had recounted about her namesake.
• • •
It was the late 1800s and Hinda Bracha was in love. The only daughter of a Hassidic rebbe, Hinda was betrothed to a misnaged, a learned, pious man named Avram who opposed Hassidic philosophy and practice. Avram believed in the Law, not an emotional approach to connecting to God.
Hinda’s father was impressed with Avram, his learning and observance, and the shidduch was approved. They married, and though the first year of marriage is known to be difficult, for Hinda and Avram it was bliss. They loved each other, and that was all that mattered.
Shortly after the birth of their baby girl, the troubles started. Avram, the Hassidim said, was using perfumed soap in the mikveh, the ritual bath. The Hassidim did not approve.
“If the Law allows it, then so do I,” Avram insisted.
They took the matter to their rebbe. “Rebbe, Avram mocks our ways. In public. It is so disrespectful. It is not frum! It is not done!”
The rebbe sided with his son-in-law. The Hassidim still did not approve. They picked fights with Avram, roughhoused him.
Avram would not change. “I follow the Law. Not emotional nonsense.”
The Hassidim had had enough. “Divorce him,” they warned Hinda Bracha, “or he will pay.” Avram, the logical man of Law, did not recognize the extent of the danger he was in from the Hassidim, who felt disrespected.
Hinda’s father found him one morning in the mikveh, lying naked on the cold tiled floor, beaten senseless.
He would talk to his Hassidim, but he knew them well, too. Avram was not a Hassid. He did not belong.
“Divorce him,” the rebbe sadly commanded his daughter. He knew this was the only way to save Avram’s life.
Hinda cried as her little girl played on her lap. She couldn’t have it all. She couldn’t live a Hassidic life with a husband who so blatantly did not keep the community standards. He wasn’t frum enough. He would never fit in.
If she went away with Avram, she would have to give up her family, her community, her way of life. The only life she’d ever known.
Or she could stay in her community and be safe, her life orderly and neatly planned.
When Avram came home from the mikveh beaten, Hinda implored him to stop using the perfumed soap. He would not back down from what he saw was the bastardization of the Law. “Extra laws are as dangerous to the Torah as not keeping the laws,” he insisted.
Hinda realized that this attitude would get him killed, so she did it: She asked him for a get. A divorce. Avram begged her to come away with him from that crazy shtetl, to make a new life for themselves in America.
The story should have had a happy ending.
But Hinda Bracha would not leave everything she knew for an unfamiliar place, especially such a distant and dangerous place as America. She’d heard all the stories of pious Jews who had thrown off their religion the minute they got off the boat in America. No, she would not leave her Hassidim.
With a heart as heavy as a sack of stones, Avram granted her a divorce and left. He wrote to her from America. He’d gotten a position as a rabbi in Chicago. But he wasn’t as frum as her own people, so to her he was a nothing.
In all his letters, he begged Hinda to join him. His love for her never waned.
But she would not come.
Eventually she remarried a Hassid in the community. When he heard the news, Avram remarried as well.
Yet, until his dying day, he wrote letters to his daughter, though he knew Hinda Bracha wouldn’t let their child read them. It wasn’t until Hinda herself was on her deathbed that she told her oldest child about her real father, and about the letters — the letters that Hinda hadn’t let her see, that she’d saved for the right time.
Hinda and Avram’s daughter finally understood how much she had been loved, and she also understood the pressures of conforming to community standards. Standards in the name of religion that had little to do with religion at all.
When she was old enough, she left for America with the hope of reuniting with her father. By the time she got there, he was long dead.
• • •
After Shabbos lunch, Hindy retrieved Leah and Rachel for the short walk to the hospital. Two young men in black hats and suits approached from the other direction. The boys and girls lowered their eyes as they passed each other on the sidewalk, pretending out of modesty that the other did not exist. The strong smell of Drakkar mingled briefly with the girls’ Paris and Poison and then wafted away.
“Very cute,” Leah whispered to Hindy, who giggled as the boys turned their heads to glimpse at the girls in their wake.
At the hospital they made their rounds, visiting the sick and making sure to stop in to see Mrs. Gruen in room 203. In her eighties, frail Mrs. Gruen was a regular patient at the hospital; she had diabetes and a sweet tooth, but no willpower.
The older woman lay in bed, her arm hooked up to an IV. “God bless you, girls. It’s good to see you!” she said. “Come meet my new friend.”
The girls walked over to the next bed and chatted amiably with another elderly woman.
“Can I get you something to eat?” The white-haired woman offered the girls some of her petrified lunch.
The girls shook their heads, not a bit too obviously.
“I’m sorry I have nothing tastier to offer you,” she said.
“Please, we came to visit you,” Hindy said gently, and then asked the woman why she hadn’t touched her lunch.
“I don’t know. I’m just not hungry,” the woman sighed.
Hindy nudged sweetly. “Let me feed you.”
“I think the older one gets, the less one needs to eat,” the woman said. “But such a nice girl you are! All of you, lovely kallah maidels.”
The girls blushed.
“You are looking to get married, I hope? I have such fine boys from my husband’s yeshiva looking for such nice girls like you.”
“Which yeshiva?” Hindy asked.
“Kaplinsky’s. You’ve heard of it?”
Who hadn’t?
Rachel cleared her throat. “Are you Rebbitzen Kaplinsky?”
The lady smiled. “I am.”
After the initial feeling of awe, the girls felt touched and honored that
someone of Rebbitzen Kaplinsky’s stature would deem them worthy of matches. And that she would be the go-between — from her hospital bed, no less.
Hindy happily told the rebbitzen how to find her number, and after some conversation, Hindy, Leah, and Rachel walked home.
• • •
As the sun began to set, Rachel walked quietly up the stairs to her narrow white wooden house. Soon the sun would drop below the horizon, heralding the end of the most spiritual twenty-four hours in existence. She stopped for a moment, noticing the red-and-green-hued leaves spilling over into the front garden … the smells so intense and vivid … the colors so vibrant and real … and the gentle light of the receding sun illuminating the sky. Such a beautiful world God created, she thought. So alive.
It took a lot of discipline for her to keep the commandments. The changing of seasons, the rising and setting of sun and moon — everything in Judaism was centered around time. And she wasn’t too great with time. But she liked that the religion didn’t call for asceticism to get close to God. Instead, it was about being in tune with nature; it was about balance. In the appropriate situation, everything in life had its proper time and place. All the laws she lived by elevated the most mundane actions to a spiritual existence. This made her feel complete and happy.
Well, almost complete and happy. The religion was about balance — but her community was anything but. She had a natural, emotional need to find her mate, but the accompanying pressure was not natural. It was insane. What good could come of it, to have all that pressure to get married? As if she, or anyone, wanted to be alone? And yet, she thought about her friends from FIT, who felt no pressure to marry. Would they marry?
“Hi, I’m back! Anything to eat?” Rachel called out, as she walked through the front door.
Ma sat at the dining room table, daintily eating chopped tuna salad on matzo, which she had for the third and last meal of every Shabbos.
“Boy, you cut it close. Shabbos is almost over,” Ma said between bites.
Rachel quickly washed her hands and joined Ma. “Mm … good. We met Rebbitzen Kaplinsky today in Orthopedics, so we stayed a little longer than usual.”
“The Rebbitzen Kaplinsky from the famous Kaplinsky Yeshiva?” Ma stopped eating and stared cautiously at Rachel.
“Mmm-hmm,” Rachel answered, her mouth full. “Love the onions. Great tuna, Ma.”
“Did the rebbitzen say anything to you?” Ma carefully watched Rachel’s face.
“Yep. She wanted to set us all up on dates.”
“So what did you say?”
“I said I’m seeing someone.”
Ma grated her teeth anxiously. “You said no to a match from Rebbitzen Kaplinsky? The Alter Rebbitzen Kaplinsky of Kaplinsky’s Yeshiva?”
“What else should I have said, Ma?”
“But you aren’t engaged yet. You’re still a free agent.”
“What?” Rachel frowned, devouring the rest of her sandwich.
“You turn down a match from the esteemed rebbitzen — this boy you are seeing better be serious. After all, you don’t throw away opportunities.”
“Ma, it would be way too confusing to see somebody else besides Daniel Gold now.”
“True, he’s a good catch,” Ma said. “But what if you keep company with this boy and for whatever reason you don’t marry? You’re wasting precious time. If you wait too long, who’ll want you?”
Rachel sighed as she listened the familiar recital from her mother. “I know, Ma. Like a budding flower, a girl has to marry at the right time. Not too soon — but not too late.”
“I think you should see Daniel Gold,” Ma said, “and also see the boy from the Rebbitzen.”
“Ma, she doesn’t have anyone for me yet. Besides, I wouldn’t feel comfortable.”
“You think getting married is about feeling comfortable?”
Rachel swallowed slowly. “If it doesn’t work out with Daniel Gold, I’ll give her a call.”
Ma shook her head. “Fine. Just no games. Remember, your time is limited.”
“Honestly, Ma, how could I forget?”
Her father returned from shul and they gathered around the tall Havdalah candle, lit like a torch, which Rachel held high. As the Sabbath began with candlelight, so it ended, illuminating the week with the light of spirituality and giving the Shabbos the appropriate send-off.
“Hold the candle higher,” Ma nudged, referring to the folk tale that the height of the flames would be the height of a maiden’s groom.
“Ma, I’m five-six. Any taller, and my groom will be a giant,” Rachel whispered to her mother, as her father sang the blessings and held his goblet of wine. Then the Sabbath was over. The holy now became mundane, and Rachel felt the ache of Sabbath’s departure.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Quick!” Ma called. “Rachel, your date! Are you ready?”
“I’m just brushing my teeth.”
“Rachel, you had the tuna?” Ma demanded.
“Yep. It was great. Why?”
“How did you eat it when there were onions in the tuna? You couldn’t have eaten something else?”
“Ma, that’s what you were eating. And who knows what Daniel ate over Shabbos?”
“Oy, Rachel, really!”
“Maybe he’s reeling from his cholent and won’t notice my onions.”
The doorbell rang. It was Daniel. Rachel could tell because Ma’s voice instantly changed from that of a no-nonsense businesswoman to a giggly teenager. From her vantage point upstairs, Rachel watched her father shake hands with Daniel and offer him some fancy pastries and soda, which were laid out elegantly on the table decorated for the occasion, along with white paper napkins and a crystal bowl of candies. The three made small talk, and then Debby Shine called Rachel to come down.
Rachel fluffed her hair and gracefully descended the stairs. “Hi.” She smiled.
Daniel stood six feet tall, a shock of black hair framing his movie-star good looks. He wore a striped Oxford shirt and blue slacks, with a leather bomber jacket over his sweater. His aftershave smelled spicy, and Rachel liked the scent. It smelled like capability. Power.
Daniel rose to greet her, his eyes smoothly tracing her figure. She knew she looked good. Black silk Mizrahi blouse and fitted black suede skirt that emphasized her legs. Her auburn hair teased into long curls down her back, like a lion’s mane. Ma beamed, and Rachel knew she was clearly thrilled to see her baby glide down the stairs like a princess to date such a prince as Daniel Gold. Ma took some candies from the bowl and offered them to the young couple.
“No, thank you, Ma,” Rachel whispered.
“Rachel, really, they’re good for you. Very refreshing. They make my breath feel so tingly and fresh!” Ma said insistently.
“Thanks, Ma.” Rachel giggled, realizing what her mother was up to.
“Ready?” Daniel asked brusquely.
She donned her own leather jacket and said goodbye to her parents.
They walked in silence to his car, and Rachel wondered what it would be like being married to him. They’d live in a sleek apartment that she would decorate with the most elegant furniture, the softest fabrics. He’d work as a lawyer, she’d have a career in the arts, and together they’d be active in charity organizations. Movers and shakers in the community. It would be an exciting life. Sabbath would be the time to host dozens of people for meals. But Sundays the sun would shine through their window, and they’d sip cappuccinos and take turns reading the Times on Daniel’s iPad. The image of it warmed her.
It was a cool, dark night. The candy tasted sweet on her tongue, and Rachel smiled, noticing a neighbor’s kid peering out of his window. Neighbors who were coming and going nudged each other, watching Rachel walk with a boy. She knew that she could expect a lot of “yenta” questions later.
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She gazed shyly at Daniel. He truly was a catch. The metal-framed glasses and leather bomber jacket he wore gave him the appearance of an intellectual who was also with it. The perfect gentleman, Daniel held the door open for her to climb into his red Porsche.
“Nice car.”
Daniel smiled. “Thank you. It was a graduation present from my parents.”
“And all I got for graduation was this lousy T-shirt.” Rachel laughed.
Daniel didn’t. “What was that?”
Rachel’s laughter froze midway. “Never mind.”
“So how was Shabbos?” Daniel inquired as they drove into the city.
“Nice. I went to the hospital with some friends to visit sick people.”
“Impressive. You’re sent by which organization?”
“Oh, it’s not organized. We know the staff there, and they like when we come visit the patients. It’s really no big deal.”
“I volunteered at a camp for sick children once.”
“Really? What was it like?”
Daniel exhaled. “It was challenging in some ways. Rewarding in others.”
Rachel leaned forward, ready to hear Daniel expound.
“What do you think of that house?” he asked instead.
“What?”
“That one. Nice big brick. Now, that’s the kind of house for me.”
Rachel looked at the house he pointed to with one hand, the other hand controlling the leather steering wheel. She knew the house well. It was Suri’s.
Rachel gulped. “It’s a beautiful house. But a bit over the top, don’t you think?”
“Not at all. That’s the kind of house I’m working for.”
“I’d rather live in a smaller house and give more money to charity.”
Daniel sniffed. “A house is more than a place to live. It reflects your taste. Shows people who you are.”
Rachel found herself raising an eyebrow. “So you want people to envy you?”
“They can work for it, too. What’s stopping them?”
Rachel shook her head. “There’s a difference between wanting to live in an aesthetically pleasing home and wanting to live in a mansion to knock out everybody else’s eyes.”