Questioning Return

by Beth Kissileff

  “Only if we meet over crepes here.”

  Orly lifted her fork again, and Wendy lifted hers to match. They clanged together and then both forks made their way from the plate to their owners’ mouths to finish the rapidly dwindling dessert.

  True to her word, Orly printed out a copy of something from one of her journalism school courses on interviewing techniques and dropped the article off in Wendy’s mailbox one afternoon when she wasn’t home. Oddly, the piece mentioned, in addition to some journalistic ones, the two that Violet Dohrmann had specified she should get: Interviewing: Its Principles and Methods by Annette Garrett, and The Social Work Interview by Alfred Kadushin. Wendy was reading it over for the umpteenth time, making sure she was following its suggestions.

  Of course, she had her questions written out—that had been done long ago, and she had checked them with Dohrmann to get the order right for best flow. She knew that, if there was a slowness or a lack of response, she could vary things, try to empower the interviewee by asking something about his ideal vision of being religious, or just be silent and force the interviewee to keep talking and break those awkward silences. Her favorite part of the article was carefully highlighted now and also copied out and stuck on the inside cover of her interviewing notebook along with Post-it notes saying, “Be sneaky,” “Be annoying,” and “Work your subjects up.” All these were dream commands for the shushed and silenced youngest sister, the one who wanted to be listened to and taken seriously, but was always relegated to the kids’ table, to watching cartoons on TV, to being told the matter wasn’t something she could understand: “Not for you now, dear. One day when you’re older.” Finally, this was Wendy’s chance to make people respond to her, to be in charge of the conversation, to direct it and get them to say things she was interested in. Orly’s piece was about techniques for journalists, and it talked about having a sense of the shape of the article you want to write and how the quotes from this person would fit, knowing what you wanted the subject to say. For Wendy, of course, the interesting part was not knowing what her subjects would say, getting them to say the things even they didn’t expect to say, the wholly fresh astounding honesty with which she hoped to get them to peel off their masks of piety and say what they genuinely felt, not what their teachers would expect from them.

  Wendy took the tape recorder out of her purple canvas messenger bag and put it on the table along with the orange Princeton notebook she’d purchased specifically for all her interview notes. Most notes were in her computer, but she didn’t want to lug it around to interviews or put a screen between herself and her subjects, so she used the notebook at the interviews themselves, to log themes or ideas, or be sure she had a quote down that she knew she’d want to go back to. She was pleased to think about how she had rattled the first subjects she’d deployed her set of questions on, for practice.

  It had been a bit tough to get her first guy, Reuven, to open up. She did try the annoying technique, once the endure-awkward-pauses method failed. Some guys like that—to be challenged and provoked, pushed to say something that is under the surface but that they need assistance to articulate precisely. Using the work-them-up technique, she’d finally asked about the turning point, when he knew he’d stay religious.

  She turned on the tape recorder to hear him describe it: “I was home, visiting my parents for the summer, and spent a Shabbos in Lakewood.” There was a pause for him to say to her, “You know Lakewood,” and her nod—though she wasn’t entirely sure, she wanted him to continue—“and I went to the shul there Shabbos morning. We are all standing, about to take the Torah out, when there is a guy there, with his son—the kid must have been about eleven or twelve—and all of a sudden the father falls down, sinks to the ground. People rush over, there are doctors there, they assess, someone runs to the office to call an ambulance, and someone calls out at some point, ‘Cohanim, leave the room. All cohanim, clear out.’ People were sitting with him; someone went home to tell his wife and walk to the hospital with her, and someone else went to watch the younger kids so she could leave—all this bustle to take care of this man who had just had this collapse and they were still concerned about the cohanim. I just found it”—Wendy heard the sigh on the tape recorder—“unbearably beautiful, that in the midst of this tragedy there was concern for this other group in the community.”

  She heard her own voice, tentative and out of interviewer mode break in. “Please forgive my ignorance, but can you explain why the cohanim had to leave? I don’t get it.”

  Reuven added, “The man had almost died on the spot, and they didn’t think he could be revived. On the possibility that something could be done—there was a pulse still but barely—they broke Shabbos and called an ambulance, but knowing the man was near death, they wanted the cohanim to leave so that they wouldn’t come in contact with a dead body if he did pass away. The man died before the ambulance came. His son was so brave, sitting and talking to him, singing, until the ambulance got there.”

  “That’s . . . just to die like that in front of everyone . . . How awful, right in front of his son.” Wendy heard herself turn into annoying mode: “But tell me, some people would lose their faith over this kind of thing; I mean here is a guy coming to synagogue, praying, keeping the Sabbath, with his son, and then he is struck down?”

  “Apparently, he had this brain tumor, and they had done all they could and knew it was just a matter of time; his days were limited. They had all prepared for it, knew that it was coming, so yes, of course it is horrible, but not as sudden as my first pass at the story made it seem. Anyway, for me the point was that there was this concern for every person in the room, not just the man and his son, but the cohanim, that the humanity of each person was considered.”

  “Do you really think so? I mean, pardon me for saying this, but it seems so uncompassionate and legalistic to have some people leave when this happened; it’s demeaning to the dead man, isn’t it, that his calamity is less important than the status of the cohen?”

  Reuven looked at her, trying to assess how to respond. She heard his glare in the pause on the tape. “If you don’t get it, you don’t, but here’s my take and why I’m religious. Each person has a role and a value; we aren’t the same: a Cohen isn’t a Yisrael or a Levi, but each is valued. Women and men aren’t the same. I like the segmentation. You don’t have to understand.”

  Wendy had gotten defensive. “It’s not that I don’t understand; I do get that there are these roles. I just don’t like it, that’s all.”

  “But who are you to question it? That’s how it has always been in Judaism. If you don’t like it, that doesn’t make it less valid.”

  “We don’t have to agree, I am just asking questions. Look, I appreciate your making the time to do this. Thanks.” Wendy sounded smug, even to herself listening. She thought, I’ve got to work on saying things in a less abrasive way and not telling people everything I think so that it can be less about me and more about them. Of course I have ideas and opinions, but broadcasting them during an interview is not my task. My task is to put them at ease and let them speak about themselves, not to argue with them. I need to learn to back off and give them space to speak or I could get into trouble. What if Reuven tells his rabbi I’m arguing with him—they could bar me from interviewing people. I’ve got to be more careful about how I speak . . .

  A few weeks later, Wendy had sent more surveys out to additional girls’ yeshivot. Orly told Wendy that, as a reward for her good behavior, she deserved to go out. Orly had decided that her mission was to take Wendy to a new place each time they got together, a Jerusalem coffee shop of the month club. This time they were meeting at Worlds Beyond Words, a bookstore and coffee shop opened recently on Emek Refaim, five blocks from Wendy’s apartment. It served organic foods with as much locally grown produce as possible; the big seller was its fresh fruit and vegetable juices with nutritional supplements like ginseng and spirolina. The wares it housed were among the most multicultural in the c
ity: Chinese homeopathic remedies alongside vegan Passover cookbooks, texts on the lives of Sufi mystics and the works of Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav, bracelets whose beads gave off good energy centers, yoga books and multicolored mats and healing crystals. The clientele was both religious and secular, Israeli and foreign—mostly Jews, though there were Christians and Moslems too, and occasionally Thai and Filipino workers came in to obtain particular herbs and spices hard to find elsewhere in the country.

  The tables for the café were in the back. There was a full dinner menu, and liquor as well, making it an increasingly popular Thursday night destination. Orly’s boyfriend, Nir, would meet them here later. The menu was as eclectic as the merchandise. There was Indian food: spicy curries, samosas, and masalas, with yogurt and mango lassi drinks. There were also Asian stirfries, as well as at least two entirely raw entrees to cater to devotees of raw food, and a selection of homemade yogurts. The tables in back were surrounded by bookcases with free books, many in English, that patrons left behind because they were moving or leaving the country.

  Wendy and Orly entered the store, passing the bulletin board at the front advertising environmentally friendly diapers, qigong classes, Reiki and Rolfing treatments, and all manner of hemp-based products. They walked through the display tables with books: a cross-cultural survey of ideas about luck coexisted with Jewish Healing Wisdom: Folklore and Fancy and The I-Thou Guide to Opening your Partner. Wendy stopped to browse and picked up a book on Dreamwork: Using your Unconscious Mind to Achieve your Goals. Orly flipped through Love Around the World: Global Secrets of Intimacy. Wendy didn’t like general interest books; she preferred the rigor and precision of solid academic work, knowing that a jury of peers had reviewed and vetted an idea or theory. To her, the writing in the books here was airy and frothy, insubstantial to anyone other than the writer. Each book seemed based solely on itself, to call out, “I’m right. Read me and I’ll tell you how to live by tarot cards, or astrology symbols, or Turkish palm reading.”

  Wendy said to Orly, “Let’s eat. I can’t take these books on positive thinking and the guilt they put on you if you don’t affirm well enough.”

  “Lighten up,” Orly said, holding her book and skimming intently. “Listen to this. Malawi tribes send a newly married couple off into the woods, with only an axe, a cooking pot, and scented oil believed to be an aphrodisiac to see how they fare in the world. Isn’t that romantic?”

  “An axe?”

  “To chop trees for fire wood? Or kill animals?” Orly guessed. “Maybe, to see who would have control of the relationship.”

  “Violence is necessary to intimacy?”

  Orly said, “There is always a certain degree of violation, and exposure, that has to occur to achieve intimacy. That’s why we’re all so afraid of it.”

  “It’s hard to find a guy you want to expose yourself to completely. I’ve never felt that way about anyone.”

  “You never know,” Orly said, putting her book on global intimacy back on the table and leading the way to the back where the tables were.

  “Hey, there’s Dara Glasser. We went to college together. I’ll introduce you,” Wendy said as she spotted Dara with a group already seated in the café area.

  Wendy and Dara had bumped into each other Wendy’s first week here, but hadn’t seen each other since. Dara was someone Wendy knew casually at Columbia who it was fine to bump into but never to make intentional plans with.

  Dara rose from her chair to hug Wendy more effusively than Wendy felt their connection deserved. Wendy returned the hug with less fervor than it was given, then disengaged and said, “Good to see you. This is my friend Orly Markovsky.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Dara said. “How do you guys know each other?”

  Orly said, “Camp Kodimoh, many moons ago.”

  One of the men at the table looked up and said, “Camp Kodimoh. My sister went there. How old are you?”

  Wendy and Orly said, “Twenty-six.”

  “She’s twenty-nine. Shelley Stern. Ring a bell?”

  “Don’t think so,” Orly said. To the man, she said, “Orly. Hi,” and reached over to shake his hand.

  “Julian Stern. Nice to meet you.”

  This seemed to be the cue for going around with introductions. Next to Julian was a guy who introduced himself as Jason Lessing, then Talia Blaustein from Michigan, Robin Shearer from Ohio, and Noah Lazevsky from Long Island.

  “How do you guys know Dara?” Noah asked, looking at Wendy and Orly.

  “Undergrad at Columbia. You?” said Wendy.

  “I went to Oberlin, but I know Dara from classes at Wisdom of the Heart Yeshiva. I just finished ulpan at Hebrew U.”

  “Really? I did that ulpan,” said Wendy, noticing him more carefully now. He was fairly cute—brown wavy hair, nice eyes in an indeterminate shade that she couldn’t decide was more blue or more gray. Noah’s smile was unusual, the gap between his two front teeth giving him a certain kind of innocence, untouched as he was by an orthodontist’s hand. As she started a conversation with him, Orly, who had been an undergrad in Ann Arbor, started trying to play Jewish geography with Talia from Michigan.

  “What level?” Noah asked.

  “Oh . . . Gimel. You?” She wasn’t sure whether it would be good if his Hebrew was better or worse than hers.

  “Vov. That’s why I’ve never seen you. The advanced classes met in different places from the others. What are you doing this year?”

  “Writing my dissertation.” This was always the awkward moment in a conversation, how to say enough about the topic to keep it on the level of general interest and not too technical.

  “On what? I’m in grad school too, Kabbalah at NYU.”

  “Religion at Princeton.”

  “One of my professors from Oberlin is at Princeton now.”

  “Mark Sokoloff?” Wendy guessed. “He’s on my committee.”

  “Watch out. He’s a dick.”

  Wendy laughed. “I thought it was just to me. I didn’t know that was his general reputation.”

  “Oh yeah,” Noah said emphatically. “I can’t tell you how many people got screwed because he forgot to write their recommendations, or missed deadlines. He just didn’t care.”

  “He’s only a reader on my dissertation, not my main adviser. Still, I would like to have someone on my committee who was . . . well . . . less of a dick, as you articulate so clearly.” She laughed again. Noticing Noah’s navy blue crocheted kipah with his name in light blue with white edging, she said, “Wasn’t he nicer to you because you’re religious?”

  “I didn’t wear a kipah then. I don’t always even now. Most of the time, but I’m not quite there yet.” He gave her a smile with that disarmingly cute gap between his two front teeth.

  “I’m not religious either. I study religion, but I prefer observing to participating.” She smiled back at him, uncertain what was next.

  “Do you want me to get you a chair? I see some extras at that table,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  He walked a few tables over to get a chair and brought one for Wendy and one for Orly. After Wendy was seated, he said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why study religion if you aren’t part of it?”

  “I won’t say I’m not part of it, I’m Jewish,” she added defensively.

  “I mean, why this? Why not Zulu rituals or Brazilian martial arts?”

  “Israel is the Jewish homeland. I’m curious about how ideas of home and return shape people’s lives and narratives. Even in the short time I’ve been here, I’ve seen this place, this city, exert this tremendous hold on people. Shabbat here is . . . special. I like it—but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to check my e-mail or turn a light on or off.” She looked at him and saw that he was listening, so she continued, “What interests me is how individuals see themselves and their lives in relation to it, so I’m writing about American baalei teshuvah in Israel and how they discuss their path of becoming religious.”

&n
bsp; “Smart way to get at the question—doing oral interviews and finding out how they see themselves forging these connections?”

  “Exactly.” She looked at him again. “Noah?” This was the first time she’d addressed him by name and she wanted to be sure she had it right. “You’re the first person I’ve talked to here who actually gets what I’m doing. Thank you.”

  “It sounds wonderful.”

  She wanted to shift the conversation to him, so she could give him a compliment too. “Why do you study Kabbalah?”

  “I have some conflicting passions, you know?” Wendy wasn’t sure, but nodded politely, noting favorably his use of the word “passion.” He continued, “Shabbos is really important to me. I want it to be the center of my week—looking towards it, planning for it. Learning, trying to grow in Torah, being an ethical person.”

  “Where’s the conflict?” Wendy asked, curious as to what would make those lovely gray blue eyes clouded.

  He looked at her, unsure what to divulge. “I don’t know if I’m committed to grad school. Maybe I should go to rabbinical school, but I’m not sure. Which one? Hopefully I’ll resolve it by the end of the year.”

  Wendy felt sorry for him, in his confusion. It gave her a tremendous sense of relief that, at least for the next two years, she knew what she was doing: writing her dissertation. “I felt the same way, not being sure about grad school till I got my Fulbright.”

  “You have a Fulbright?” he said, impressed. “That’s amazing.

  SIX

  New Jerusalem?

  Its members renounced the pleasures of this world, for the earth and all that it held to them was but a kind of illusion, and the true reality was the New Jerusalem toward which they were longing.

  —ISAK DINESEN, Babette’s Feast

  Wendy was in the office of Rabbi Gibber at Yeshivat Temimei Nefesh, the men’s division of the RISE yeshiva network. It was patterned on the model of the office of his counterpart at the women’s yeshiva. Piles of papers everywhere, bookshelves, a lending library. The only element missing was the colorful inspirational posters proclaiming, “Keep rising.” Did men not need images to encourage them to rise? She would have to make a note about that. The rabbi was sitting behind his desk across from her, tapping the tips of his fingers together, the door behind Wendy ajar for modesty.