She kept pace with him, hearing his breath close to her, and replied, “I think when Babette reveals to us her true nature, that she is indeed an artist, a cook at the Café Anglais, and that as an artist she will never be poor because an artist has something of which other people know nothing. That was so beautiful.” She added, “And then, when she said that the cry of the artist is ‘Give me leave to do my utmost.’” Wendy started getting choked up without knowing why.
Noah didn’t notice the quaver in her voice and her emotion, and suddenly both of their attention was diverted by the incontrovertible sounds of sirens, followed by their appearance, zooming by them, a convoy, a roaring fleet going to conduct the injured to safety.
Wendy felt utterly defeated by this. Noah had been right.
Noah took her hand suddenly, grabbing it roughly, as a scared child would hold a rope that will allow him safe exit. Wendy was pleased despite the harshness of the grip. Was she getting somewhere with him?
The ambulances were all going to the right, and Wendy’s apartment was to the left so they turned that way. Noah kept holding her hand; instead of reassuring her with his presence by her side, he seemed to weigh her down, his hand pressing her, making it physically harder for her to walk.
Wendy wanted to be helpful and comforting, and asked, “I guess this must be hard for you, bringing back what happened this summer? You can tell me if you want.”
Noah didn’t respond, and they walked on with the blast of sirens detonating in the background. In the window of a flower store, Atelier Delphine, Wendy spotted tulips in a sharp yellow, a canary yellow, glowing out, their beauty filling the window. Its display area revealed other arrangements, all in yellow: flowers in tall white teardrop-shaped vases with a curved bottom, flowers in silver buckets and peeking out of wooden birdhouses, all in extravagant profusion. Wendy hadn’t noticed this store before and wanted to call Noah’s attention to loveliness even in the midst of tragedy, but she knew that he wouldn’t have an interest. Maybe he feared the realm of the physical somehow, and did not want to give in to it.
“I don’t think I can explain it to you, Wendy. I’m sorry. It’s . . . excruciating. Just hearing the sirens. I went to the hospital to find him after they took him in an ambulance . . . I sincerely hope you never have to see anything like it.”
Wendy felt like an insulated kid, someone who hadn’t experienced tragedy, naïve, untouched by the things that matter in this world. So, glumly disappointed in the failure of the date, in Noah’s inability to rouse himself out of thoughts of the past and pay attention to her, she trudged on, thoughts of the extravagant food in the movie and flowers in the shop providing cheering ballast to the grim pictures forming in her imagination every time an ambulance filled with victims whisked past them.
She wanted to tell Noah just to go home, that she didn’t need him to walk her, but didn’t want to insult him or hurt his feelings, so she continued, plodding hand in hand.
“‘The vain illusions of this earth had dissolved before their eyes like smoke and they had seen the universe as it really is.’ I thought that was so true. I wish all the pain and suffering of the world could dissolve and only the good true things could be here.” Wendy startled herself by speaking.
“I . . . I’m afraid of the physical world, of its dangers, how harmful it can be, of seeking beauty for the wrong reasons, for pleasure only, not for love or creating something of lasting value. I”—he stopped and then started again—“I know you are impatient with me and with my feelings, Wendy. I just need . . . a little bit of time to figure everything out, about the pigua, about Sam. I like you . . . it’s just hard for me to be with someone else now, to be in a relationship. I hope you understand.”
“Noah, that’s fine. It’s okay to . . . want to have some time. I like you. I’ll wait. Do what you need to do for yourself,” Wendy added, she hoped generously. She felt reassured. All this didn’t have to do with her and her desirability but with the trauma he had experienced, seeing a friend die.
At Mishael 5, they parted, hugs exchanged.
As Wendy entered her gate, she realized the news on the radio was only in Hebrew at this hour, and she’d be hopelessly lost if she attempted to listen. She had no TV in her apartment. She knocked on her landlady Amalia Hausman’s door.
Amalia looked through the keyhole to see her visitor. Amalia didn’t cover her hair at home as she did on the street, and she wanted to check whether the visitor was one for whom she needed to don a head covering. Amalia opened the door and said in her German-accented English, “Vundy, I’m so glad to see you safe, yes? Come in, please. You heard about the pigua, not so far from here? I vas on the four bus yesterday . . .” Amalia gave an involuntary shudder. “No matter, we’ll manage, yiyeh tov.” She looked at Wendy as she closed the door behind her. “You’re not going back to the States, are you?”
“I wasn’t planning to, no. I need to finish my research. Do they know what happened at the pigua?”
“Ve’ll vatch the news together,” Amalia said, leading the way down the hall into her living room and gesturing for Wendy to follow her. The screen was projecting images of a deconstructed bus, its insides splayed out on the pavement.
“Do you vant tea?”
Wendy wasn’t ordinarily a tea drinker, preferring the stronger caffeine of coffee. “Thanks, Amalia. Tea would be nice,” Wendy assented.
“Sit. I’ll be right back.” Amalia gestured to the sofa in front of the TV. While waiting, Wendy tried to follow the Hebrew of the news, but mostly read the English captions at the bottom of the screen and veered between averting her eyes from grisly scenes of mangled human body parts and staring at the gruesome visions on the screen with voyeuristic fascination. Wendy’s vocabulary was now enriched with new Hebrew words she wished she didn’t need to know—for injury, serious, stable, to be hospitalized, bomb, explosion, terrorist.
Amalia called out, “Sugar? Milk?”
“Both, please,” Wendy responded.
Amalia returned with the tea and a plate with a few cookies.
They looked at the TV together.
“It’s not the first time,” Amalia said, still gazing at the reporter standing in front of the ultra-Orthodox men gathering human remains at the scene.
Wendy turned her head to look at her companion. “Sorry? What?”
“This . . . destruction and devastation. It has happened before; since the Bayit Rishon, the first . . . em . . .Temple . . . was destroyed, people have wanted Jews to leave. We haven’t.”
“No, I guess not.” Wendy was sipping her tea carefully when she saw something in Hebrew on the bottom of the screen that made her hands unsteady. She spilled tea all over her lap. “Amalia, do you see that name there, at the bottom? It says Binyamin Margolis, twenty-seven, residence Scarsdale, New York, United States. Why is his name there?”
Amalia looked again at the screen. “The niftzaim . . . em . . . injury? People with injuries?” she added. “You know this Binyamin Margolis?”
Wendy gulped down hot tea to brace herself. “He is in my fellowship group. I don’t know him well, but I know him. Our families in the States know each other too. I . . .”
“He’s injured. Ve don’t know how badly. Maybe it is light?”
“Maybe.” Wendy was in shock. Someone she knew was injured.
“These bombings are a terrible thing . . . any time, anywhere. My husband, he was killed . . . twenty-seven years ago. At the Supersol Grocery, here in the neighborhood. A bomb. He’d been in an antiterrorism unit in the army, and went closer to try to stop the bomber. He couldn’t stop it, but he prevented greater loss. He was the only one killed. All others were saved.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. I still miss him every day. But life goes on. I’m most sorry for the grandchildren, who didn’t know him.”
Wendy wanted to go back to her apartment to change her tea soaked skirt. But after Amalia’s disclosure about her husband, Wendy felt it would
be rude to leave her alone. She had to stay a few more minutes and she also craved more knowledge about the pigua, what exactly happened, and how many were injured.
Amalia shook her head at the screen. “Oof, nora. Mashehu. Mamash nora . . . Terrible, awful. At least seventeen injured, perhaps more; that’s what they know. We got through the siege of ’48 in this city, the Gulf War a few years ago. This too, you’ll see, it’ll get better, b’ezrat Hashem.”
Hearing about these losses made her want to talk to her parents, to make sure they weren’t worrying, even if Amalia were to think her rude. “Thank you for the tea, Amalia. I’d better go upstairs and call my parents. I don’t want them to worry.”
Amalia took the teacup and said, “Any time you vant to vatch the news, feel free to come down. I alvays vatch. I’ll help with Hebrew.”
“Let’s hope the news is better next time,” Wendy said, standing up.
She went up to her apartment and started calling her friends. Once inside, Wendy called Todd to vent. “The matzav in this country is totally screwing me over! It ruined my date with Noah tonight!”
Todd laughed appreciatively, “Mon Cherie, start at the beginning, je ne comprends pas.”
“So I planned this great date with Noah. We saw this incredible movie, Babette’s Feast, at the Cinematheque, very romantic; but there was a boom in the middle of the movie and Noah ran out to see what it was. We didn’t know anything about what happened, and tried to go to that really nice restaurant there and have coffee, but the waiter never came and Noah was antsy to find out the deal with the noise, and we left. As soon as we got up to Keren Hayesod, we saw the ambulances.”
“But,” Todd said, his voice imitating a therapeutic professional, “you feel guilty that you aren’t concerned with the injured, only with the fact that your date is flipped out.”
“Exactly! He said it’s hard to be with someone else now. I don’t know what he meant.”
“Um, Wendy dear, are you sitting down?”
“Yes, why?”
“I’m going to tell you something you may not, no probably don’t want, to hear, but I am going to tell you for your own good. I don’t want to see you get hurt, so forgive me for not saying this earlier but . . . I wasn’t quite sure how to.”
“What? Now I’m worried. Just tell me.”
“Okay, Sam was gay. You didn’t have any way of knowing that since you weren’t in the country when he was alive. So, this is who Sam was. He was incredibly gorgeous—thick black curly hair, carefully cut to an appropriate length, dark brown eyes, almost olive-toned skin, smooth and perfectly unblemished, lithe runner’s body, with muscles evident but not overly large. He took advantage of his looks to be incredibly promiscuous. There have been Shabbat dinners when I’ve looked around and realized that every person there had slept with him, except me, sadly. I don’t think I was beautiful enough for him. So your Noah may not be entirely on your team. I think you need to know that.”
“Oh.” She thought for a minute and added, “Hmm. This does change things a bit. It definitely isn’t about me if he’s not on my team.” She stopped again and said, “So why is he bothering to date me? What’s that about?”
“I can’t tell you—must be that you are irresistible, my dear. Maybe he isn’t ready to switch sides entirely and you’re his last try to play for the ladies? I don’t know.”
“I have no interest in dating a gay man, that’s for sure. What’s the point if he can’t desire me? Strangely, I feel much better now.”
“Whatever floats your boat.”
“You are the most amazing friend, Todd. Coffee Friday? Your favorite waiter’s table?” Todd had a crush on one of the waiters who worked at Caffit on Fridays.
“Sure thing.”
Wendy decided to make herself some warm milk to relax, and went over to the fridge. She got out a saucepan she’d bought at Mahane Yehuda, poured the milk into a mug to measure it, and poured it into the pan. As she stirred the milk over the flame, she thought about how comforting it was that she had people to speak with, friends who cared about her—or cared enough to fight with her, Wendy thought idly, scraping scalded milk from the bottom of the pot. Would she too be scorched by her year here, singed by getting too close to the heat? She poured the milk into her mug, sprinkled some cinnamon on top, and went over to her dining table, piled with books and papers. She put the milk down and found her diary. She began to write, and to sip, comforting herself that, since violence had hit her circle once, it wouldn’t again. She would be okay this year, she told herself as she wrote it to confirm her hopes.
Finally, it was one in the morning, so it would be 6:00 p.m. in New Bay and at least one of her parents would be home. She dialed and listened, the long pauses between rings on international calls signaling the vast distances between the speakers.
“Wendy, so nice to hear your voice. Everything okay?” Wendy usually called on a Saturday or Sunday, so her mother, Sylvia, was surprised to hear from her now, a Wednesday evening, knowing it was one in the morning in Israel. “What time is it for you?”
“I’m fine, Mom, no need to worry, but there was a bomb on a bus here. A boy from my Fulbright group, Benj Margolis, was injured.”
Wendy could hear an audible gasp. “Joanie’s son? I just saw her at the hairdresser—you know Aunt Gail was her bridesmaid. Oh my God, Wendy, we’ll send a ticket right away,” she heard her mother say, “Let me call the travel agent. I’ll be so relieved to have you back, sweetheart.”
“I’m not coming back. I just called to let you know I’m okay.”
“Wendy, it’s dangerous. You don’t have to stay—I’m sure you would be allowed to keep your Fulbright money and do research here. It’s a government program—they’ll probably tell all of you to come home.”
“My research is here; my life is here. Don’t tell me what to do.”
Sylvia cleared her throat audibly. “Wendy . . . honey . . . no one wants US citizens in a danger zone. Tell you what, I’ll have Daddy call Nita Lowey, our congresswoman. She went to junior high with him, you know.”
“Mom, I don’t care what Congresswoman Lowey or anyone else says, I am staying here.”
“Darling, no one wants you in danger. I’m sure the government will decide that’s what is best.”
“Nita Lowey is known as a strong supporter of Israel. It won’t look so good if she encourages people to leave. You know, I am an adult. I can decide what to do. By the way, I just started dating someone, a nice Jewish boy. Happy?”
“Come home with him. I’m sure his parents want him back also.”
“Mom, I love you and Daddy and don’t want you to worry. I’ll be back in June. In the meantime, you’re welcome to visit.”
“Sweetie, you know we can’t leave your Grandma Essie, and she isn’t well enough to travel. Especially to a dangerous place like Israel. Be realistic.”
“She could stay with Joel or Lisa. Or Uncle Richie or Aunt Gail. You’re not her only child.”
“Joel and Lisa have families of their own. They couldn’t have Essie with them day and night with their own little kids. Gail and Richie . . . I don’t know. We just can’t visit this year.” Her mother paused. “I hear someone in the driveway. Let me see if your father is home.” There was stillness on the line as Sylvia walked over to the door to the attached garage and opened it. “Arthur, quick. Wendy’s on the phone. She’s okay but there was a bus bombing and Joanie Margolis’s son was injured.”
Wendy could hear her father’s steps quicken as he came to the phone. “Wendy, honey, are you okay? We’ll send a ticket if you want to come back.”
“Hi, Daddy, I’m okay. I feel . . . I don’t know . . . a bit shaken, but I like being here. I didn’t expect this.”
“We’ll bring you home. Anytime. Just say the word, sweetie.”
“Honestly, Daddy, I’m okay.”
“Your mother and I only want what’s best for you. You need to consider how important this research is against your need t
o be somewhere dangerous. You could do what you are doing right here in New York. Go up to Monsey, or to Borough Park,” he added, and then continued. “I have a cousin, Kenny. I haven’t stayed in touch, but he became baal teshuva. He lives in . . . Flatbush somewhere?”
Wendy started pacing, holding the phone to her ear, trying not to get angry. “I know you’re concerned, Daddy. I need to stay here. I’m sorry to worry you but I need to finish this research.”
“I know how hard you’ve been working on this degree, but your safety is more important. If, God forbid, something happened to you, this project would not be worth more than your life.”
Wendy took a deep breath. “Dad, you’re right. No project is worth more than a life. This is important and I want you to respect that. It feels to me like you and Mom really don’t care about my career. Maybe that isn’t true, but it feels that way.”
“No career is more important than anything else. I work long hours, but it is for my family. I’ve always put you first, even if you don’t realize it. Family first—and your life. Pikuah nefesh—you know that?”
“I do, actually. Saving your life comes before almost any other mitzvah. The person I just started dating, Noah, is sort of religious. He’s teaching me things.”
“Why don’t you and Noah both come back to America?”
“I haven’t asked him, Dad.”
“After this, he’ll be ready to come home.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. It might make him want to stay more. Anyway, I just want to let you and Mom know I’m fine, I love you, I’m having a good time, and working hard. I like living here, you know. Shabbat, it’s just . . .”
Her father called to her mother, “Syl . . . steel yourself. Buy some new dishes. Wendy’s starting to be religious. I can tell. This is what happened to my cousin.”
“I’m not becoming religious. All I said is that I like Shabbat, seeing people relax, few cars in the streets, everyone buying flowers to bring home. It’s a nice feeling, everything slowing down . . . I wish you and Mom wouldn’t see me as your baby.”
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