How did they get to this point so quickly? The summer program had only started three weeks ago, Dawn had told her. Wendy sensed that they were competing to see who could become scrubbed most clean, most pure in her devotions and Orthodoxy, with the least residue of her previous life. Would these women, trying to scour themselves of pieces of their earlier identities, show any fault lines to an outsider? From this casual chatting she would see what they thought. Listening without expressing an opinion was not natural to Wendy but she remained quiet. Only through listening could she formulate her questionnaire, to get the information that would be the nucleus of her dissertation, the main hub for her theoretical notions to circulate. She would never be able to theorize if she didn’t have informants who trusted her with their life stories.
Was she using them? Running this through her mind as she tried to digest the conversation gave Wendy a jolt of discomfort. Letting them speak openly without telling them that she was here to write a dissertation, was it dishonest? If they thought she was posing as one of them to gain their trust, wouldn’t they be furious on finding out? Wendy was on the verge of confessing that she had come to write about baalei teshuvah when the recitation of the Grace after Meals swept over the room, voices surging in unison, a mob of piety joining together in Hebrew. When the chant ended, the students got up from their tables, bussing their trays to the back of the room. Wendy followed Dawn and the others to class without having revealed herself as a hunter sniffing out her quarry.
The classroom was of the same ilk as the rest of the building, not very old, but seeming older, with unwashed windows and junior high school-type desks with attached writing arms. The blackboard too was streaked, as though only hastily cleaned, never thoroughly erased of the jottings of previous teachers. The students waited, whispering and gesturing among themselves, for the teacher to enter. They were talking as though about a celebrity, trying to glean small pieces of information about the teacher from the droplets he gave off in the classroom, where he lived, how many children he had, how long he’d been married.
Rabbi Pavlov entered the room, placing his black leather briefcase, with shiny silver buckles, on the desk. He stood in front of the class, looked at the floor, and paced back and forth, as though using up restless energy. He began, “The Ethics of the Fathers teaches ‘aseih lecha rav,’ make for yourself a rabbi. One must always ask a rabbi a shaila, a question. Even if you think you know the answer, there may be intricacies of the law you can’t grasp. Nothing is too obvious or simple for your rav. He wants you to ask. The whole system of halacha, Jewish law, is based on mesorah, the transmission of the chain of tradition. You, women”—he put the emphasis on this word and finally looked up directly at his female charges rather than the floor—“can’t know what a rav does, so always, always”—here he paused in his pacing—“ask your rav a shaila. If you think for yourself, you won’t be connecting to our heritage, only your own thoughts. Never make that mistake. Ask, ask, ask.”
Wendy, stifled by this train of thought, daydreamed back to her favorite college class, Contemporary Civilization, known as CC, her first year at Columbia. She had started college with plans to be a history major, Columbia’s most popular undergraduate field of study, because there were so many outstanding professors, particularly in her domain, American history. History was supposed to be good preparation for law school, which she assumed she’d do because her father, brother, and sister had. Her interests shifted when she took CC with Caroline Van Leeuwen, the religion department’s first female tenured professor. In class, Van Leeuwen often closed her eyes while speaking, as though she were possessed. When the teacher spoke with her eyes closed, she appeared as though in a trance, reciting knowledge gleaned from an otherworldly source. On leaving the classroom, if someone asked Wendy what had been discussed, she might not be able to define it with certainty; yet she knew something revelatory had occurred. What made Van Leeuwen’s classes special wasn’t just seeing the teachers’ eyes closed in a state of apprehension outside the immediate realm of the students’ grasp, but also what she was able to elicit from the students themselves.
Often, at the beginning of class, Professor Van Leeuwen would come in and tell the class that she had been up all night reading the assigned text and listening to jazz. She would stroll to the classroom’s large picture window and gaze out at the statue of Rodin’s The Thinker resting on one of the few small swaths of green on the city campus, waiting for students to respond. These moments of classroom silence were scary. The students were never sure what would come next. As the silence grew more oppressive in the classroom, someone always gave an answer. One day, Wendy spoke first. As she answered a question about the role of art and passion in Plato’s Republic, she felt enchanted, as though there were a magic spell over her, making her more articulate than she had ever thought herself capable of being.
After that class, Wendy was captivated by the power of the question. That’s what she would spend her life doing, she decided in the semester with Van Leeuwen: asking questions. She loved the ways in which questions of religion were concerned with issues of meaning and significance in the world. Her teacher’s passion for her subject was palpable—Van Leeuwen, in late middle age, stayed up all night reading. Yet, with the rumors of the teacher’s instability and frequent breakdowns leading to the nickname Van Loonen, her path seemed risky. Wendy doubted she could live as her teacher did, swayed by passion for books and music, putting the minutiae of daily life aside to be fully absorbed with ideas. Yet, Wendy loved to watch someone living in this exalted state of rapt absorption with her own ideas and those of her students. Over the next two years, Wendy declared herself an American religion major, instead of an American history major. She wanted to sprinkle magical thoughts into the minds of her future students, she decided as she filled out the graduate school applications. She wanted to both live in this world and connect to things beyond it, larger than it; the study of religion seemed like a good choice.
Wendy had to elbow herself to suppress a laugh, squeezed as she was in the tight chairs made for smaller people, as she thought of how different the classroom at Bayit Ne’eman was from the one in Philosophy Hall. These students too were drawn by ideas. They wanted to have an idea of their path in life, to be less lost, to connect with others, to find love, and to be a more ideal version of the self they had been. But the ways in which the questions were asked and the types of answers given in the two places were so divergent: one encouraging active thought and the other active obedience. But still, she knew, feeling small in the junior high-sized writing desks, that she was as needy and lost as the students around her. Though she had chosen a more intellectual approach to solving life’s problems, she was still facing the same ones the others in the class, she understood, as she continued to half listen to Rabbi Pavlov.
A few weeks later, she went back to Bayit Ne’eman. She had an appointment with the dean of the school, Rabbi Dr. Lifter, who specialized in getting even the most difficult of returnees to rise.
Wendy dressed in a below-the-elbow-length T-shirt this time, with the same modestly long wrap-around skirt she’d worn before, and found Rabbi Lifter’s office on the second floor. She had made an appointment with a secretary and was on time, but there was no one there. She wasn’t sure whether to wait in the office or the hallway, but since the door was open and there were no chairs in the hallway, she entered the office.
She sat on a metal chair with an attached cushion, marking it as a grade above the absolute cheapest metal chair. She looked at the desk in front of her, overflowing with papers and with more stacks of paper behind it. To her side were bookcases whose contents were mostly English, a bit of Hebrew in a title sprinkled in. One case had a sign: “Rabbi Lifter’s lending library. Sign out and return.” A diploma, she thought from a rabbinical institution—though it was all in Hebrew or Yiddish so she wasn’t sure—and a degree from Brooklyn College were hung on the walls along with an inspirational poster of the kind found in office supply stores
. It was a garishly colored picture of a caterpillar and a butterfly, all neon pink lettering and green background, cheerily accompanied by the caption “Keep rising!”
Wendy waited, and after a minute took out some of her work from ulpan to review so she wouldn’t be wasting time. Twenty-five minutes after their scheduled appointment, a man came in, saw her, and said, “Can I help you?”
She rose to be polite and began to hold out her hand to shake his before stopping herself midair and lowering her arm. “I’m Wendy Goldberg, I had a two o’clock appointment with you. I wanted to talk about some research I’m doing.”
“Research? None of our classes require research. We want you out doing works of hesed, kindness, in your spare time. Not research.”
“I’m not a student here,” she said.
He strode in, seated himself behind his desk, and asked, “Who are you then?”
“I’m a graduate student at Princeton. I’m writing a dissertation about American baalei teshuvah and I’d like to speak with some of the students here. I sent you a letter about my project.”
He waved his hand in dismissal. “Absolutely not. We are here to mold souls. No interference.”
“I won’t interfere. Perhaps I can help. I want to understand how baalei teshuvah tell their stories, how they put their journeys into words. You might be able to use my work in your promotional material. Or your fundraising?”
“Hmm.”
“Did you get the letter from my advisor at Hebrew University, Avner Zakh? He asks your permission to let me do this work?”
“Avner Zakh? How do I know that name?”
“He told me you are related through marriage. A nephew of his, I believe, is married to a niece of yours. The last name is different, but I think his nephew is Shmuel?”
The rabbi stretched out his arms in front of him. “Yes, of course. The hassana was before Pesach; the uncle is at the university. I remember now. Good family, quite frum, direct descendants of the GR”A and the Hassam Soifer.” Wendy nodded, pretending she knew what he was talking about.
He looked and her carefully and continued, “What kinds of questions will you be asking?”
Wendy pulled out a copy of her questionnaire and handed it to him.
He glanced at it and said, “Seems harmless. You,” he pointed a finger, “you are dati?”
“Well ah,” she thought quickly. “There’s a reason I am drawn to the subject. I like the atmosphere here in Israel, the Yiddishkeit”—she was proud of herself for getting the lingo down on that one—“and . . . I think I’m growing. My grandmother keeps kosher.” She didn’t know why she blurted out that last part; he’d surely see her as an idiot now.
“A religious grandmother; you’ll come back. Religion skips a generation in galus. Make yourself right at home; sit in on any classes you like; I’ll send a note to the faculty. Of course you’ll be sure you dress modestly while you’re with us.”
“Absolutely, I’ll be very careful. Thank you so much, Rabbi Lifter. I can’t tell you how I appreciate your kindness.”
“Anytime. Come for Shabbos.”
Wendy went out the door feeling jubilant. Stage one accomplished. She had access. Whew, that felt close, but I did it. I talked my way in. Kind of funny that he let me in because he assumed that the school would impact me, without taking me seriously enough to believe I might have my own motives.
As she left Lifter’s office, she made a note to herself to call Zakh and thank him. He told her the only way things happen in this country is through protectzia. It was amazing how quickly Rabbi Lifter’s tone changed when she used Professor Zakh’s name; Zakh had told her that was the way to do things here, to know someone who knows someone, the smallness of the country operating in favor of the ease of these connections. Wendy definitely needed to revise her view of Zakh; he had helped her now despite his lack of time at their first meeting. The problem was, she wanted more specific guidance on the steps of a dissertation. He had helped her, it just wasn’t exactly the way she still wanted assistance.
Leaving the building, Wendy approached a few students she saw in the hallway to ask if they would fill out her questionnaire. She had attached stamped self-addressed envelopes and figured that if she gave out fifteen she’d get five or ten back, to give her an idea of how to start. She wanted to see what kinds of questions they would respond to, and which ones would lead to the most revealing responses. At this stage, she just wanted to give out surveys anonymously, not for data, but to develop her questions and tweak them as necessary.
Please respond to these questions as honestly as possible. Do not put your name on this—all responses are anonymous and confidential to protect your privacy.
This will not be used for any purpose other than my own information. I will be giving out a more detailed version of this questionnaire as part of my dissertation research on how baalei teshuvah tell their stories. This is a sample to help me figure out which types of questions are most useful.
If you have any questions, feel free to email me at [email protected].
Thank you so much for your time.
Wendy Goldberg
QUESTIONS FOR RETURNEES
How long have you been at this yeshiva?
How did you get here?
What aspects of religious observance are hardest?
What aspects of religious observance are easiest?
What are you working on changing about your observance?
What do you think you’ll be working on six months from now?
A year from now?
Can you pinpoint one particular event or point in time that made you realize that you were becoming more religious and would not return to your former life?
As a follow-up, do you think you will still be observant in one year? Five years? Ten years?
What has guided you in your journey to observance?
Teachers?
Friends?
Books?
What aspects of your life have changed most since you became observant?
Is there an aspect of your life that is unchanged?
Is there an aspect of this lifestyle about which you are uncertain?
Why?
Have your career or family plans changed since your involvement with the yeshiva? If so, how?
The students took the papers obediently, as though Wendy herself were Rabbi Pavlov. She was curious whether they would be honest or merely give her stock answers. She fervently hoped there was a way to get at what really disturbed them, under their veneers of certainty.
FIVE
Centers and Margins
But life can be interpreted in so many different ways . . . Perhaps there the novelist has the advantage and he can let his imagination go where it will . . . Haven’t the novelist and the anthropologist more in common than some people think? After all, both study life in communities, though the novelist need not be so accurate or bother with statistics and kinship tables.
—BARBARA PYM, An Unsuitable Attachment
The Fulbright group had its first unofficial meeting a few weeks later, at the end of August. The occasion was a discussion, “Center and Margin: A Writer and A Critic Discuss the Diaspora and Israel Today,” at Mishkenot Sha’ananim. That evening, a leading Israeli writer and public intellectual would debate a visiting lecturer from Europe. The postcard invitation to the event, the first item to be posted on Wendy’s fridge, had a big circle with smaller circles of color inside it, reds, oranges and yellows, like a Josef Albers print, only circular. There were Hebrew and English words, microscopic, encircling both the inner sphere and the outer loop. It had been on Wendy’s refrigerator for over two weeks now and she was excited to finally be going, and hopefully to be meeting some new people.
In the summer evening, Wendy walked to the Yemin Moshe neighborhood. She passed the landmark windmill that had been built to anchor the neighborhood at its inception in 1860, and tread over crooked stone steps built to reach Mishkenot Sha’ananim. She saw a
plaque outside it stating that it was the first building constructed in modern Jerusalem, to persuade Jews to live beyond the walls of the Old City where they dwelt huddled and cramped at the time.
She entered the room where the talk would be; it had seating for seventy-five to a hundred people. Stackable metal chairs with black plastic backs were the only amenities for the audience. A small podium was at the front, with a lectern to one side for the speaker, a table containing three microphones, a pitcher of water, and three glasses for the two discussants and a moderator. In Wendy’s mind, this place, to which the Jerusalem municipality brought visiting artists, writers, musicians, and intellectuals from abroad, should be more impressive and distinguished, with wood beamed ceilings and stone fireplaces, overstuffed chairs and small portable microphones that could be clipped to the speakers’ clothing. There should definitely be better chairs for the audience. Those are the amenities that would be in a room for a talk like this at Princeton, Wendy thought. She looked around, dismayed at having to sit on the hard plastic for the duration, an hour at least, probably more.
Most of the audience in the three-quarters-full room were in their forties and beyond. Wendy felt conspicuously young. The visiting speaker didn’t know Hebrew, so the proceedings would be in English. Perhaps that limited attendance? Wendy could see someone she thought was Avner Zakh at the front of the room. There weren’t a whole lot of kipot in the crowd, maybe five or six, and two or three women were wearing berets. The man she thought was Zakh was in front chatting with those around him, and there weren’t seats up there anyway. Wendy started to walk forward to be as close to the front as possible. When she reached the middle of the room, she saw a woman about her age, reading an English language magazine. The woman, who had long black curly hair, tawny skin, and dark brown eyes, was sitting in the middle of the row. There were two empty seats near her.
Wendy decided to try to get to the middle of the row, to sit near the English magazine reader. She said to the man on the aisle, “Excuse me? I’m trying to get to those seats.”
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