EIGHTEEN
Forty-Two Journeys
These are the journeys of the children of Israel who went out of the land of Egypt . . .”
—NUMBERS 33:1
The journeys totalled 42 and they are with every person from the time he/she is born until he/she returns to his/her eternity; for the day of birth has all aspects of leaving Mitzrayim.
—BAAL SHEM TOV on NUMBERS 33:1
These are the journeys of the children of Israel’ Moshe Rabbeinu wrote all the journeys of Israel. And the matters were in the whole Torah. Now, Elijah is writing all the journeys, the wandering and hardships of Israel and when the Messiah comes, this will be the book that all will learn from.
—RABBI DAVID OF LYLOV, Hasidic commentator on NUMBERS 33:1
The day after Pesach ended, Wendy was climbing steep stone stairs to an apartment off a narrow street in the Old City. She was here to interview its occupant, Rahel Shmuely, née Rachel.
Wendy had, after much back and forth between herself and the members of her committee, decided that to provide a bit of ballast to her project she would interview those who had been religious for five and ten years, not just those in yeshivot now. Her guiding premise was that those who had been religious longer would view their lives differently. Wendy wanted to know how the lens of greater distance from their original lives as secular Jews had altered their views of that prior life. The biggest problem with this new task would be finding people to interview. Some returnees who had remained in Israel were in touch with the schools they had studied at, so she was able to get their names. But others were out and about leading their lives, often trying to forget there was a time before they became religious.
Wendy wanted to get a sense of what direction these interviews would go in so she could begin to orient the tone of her whole piece accordingly. As she’d done with her first round, she wanted to conduct a few preliminary interviews to help her figure out what the most helpful questions would be and how to frame her conversations.
Today’s interviewee, Rahel, was a professional harpist. She had been in the middle of studies at a music conservatory when she came to Israel for a summer at the age of twenty-four. She never went back to the States. Now twenty-nine, Rahel had stayed in Israel and learned. She was married and had a child, and was currently expecting her second. The woman who answered the door was wearing a crocheted cotton beret that was light pink and cheerful, a loose pink cotton shirt that reached below her elbows and had room for her surging belly, a denim skirt, and fashionably clunky sandals with thick heels. She said, “Wendy?” with a smile and at her nod invited her in.
“Come in. Sorry for the mess. I’m still finishing putting away all the Pesach dishes.”
Wendy said, “Don’t worry.”
Rahel answered, “No, I feel bad about the mess because I don’t want you to see it as hard to be religious. I want you to have a good impression of baalei teshuvah.”
Wendy tried, in her most Uri-like and psychiatric voice, to say, “And why is that?” and hoped there was enough authority in it to convince Rachel to tell her something truthful.
“It’s a great way of life; you might like it if you try it.”
Wendy wished she had a snappy all-purpose comeback line to these constant overtures to become religious, like, “Goldberg is my last name because my father is Jewish and my mother isn’t,” or “Actually, I’m a psychopath; you don’t want me in your community,” but instead she said, “I’m more interested in honesty. I judge better that way.”
Wendy sat down in the small living room on a futon couch that could become a bed for Shabbos guests, and Rahel entered the tiny kitchen across from it. Rahel said, “I can’t offer you much since I don’t have my hametzdik dishes out yet. Would you like some tea and Passover brownies?”
Wendy was prepared to do what she needed to for her research, even if it meant eating unappetizing kosher-for-Passover baked goods. Did the statement “can’t offer much” have to do with truth or food?
“Sure,” her polite voice offered.
Rahel brought out the tea and brownies and they sat at the small dining table next to the kitchen. Sipping the tea, Wendy said, notebook out, “Tell me how you became religious.” She was still trying to figure out what the best approach to this part of the interview process was, so wanted to start with a basic open-ended question.
Rahel sipped her tea. “One place to start is my frustration and disgust with the master’s program in music performance. It was this culture of narcissism, people obsessed with themselves and their instruments, their careers, what kind of PR image they could project to market themselves and create a compelling narrative for audiences”—Wendy nodded, understanding the hothouse environment of graduate education—“and my feeling that I love music, and I love performing, but aren’t there other things out there, which Juilliard students are vastly ignorant of?”
Wendy said, “Aha,” in what she hoped was an encouraging way, and wanted to ask whether Uri had a bag of tricks, little things he did to indicate to patients that he was engaged with their stories. She’d find out.
Rahel continued, “I’d been thinking these things, and one day, my friend Natasha was crossing the street, got struck by a cab, and died.”
Wendy commented, “That’s . . . awful. I’m so sorry.”
“It was. Tragic. She was an only child; her parents were immigrants from Russia. She was their shining light, their daughter at Juilliard. Then, she was gone. I started thinking more about what it was I wanted out of life after her death, and decided I needed to do something different, to get out of a rut. I had this obsessive focus on music, but I felt like I’d reached a plateau in my playing. I found this free summer program through Aishet Lapidot, Woman of the Flame. I came to Israel. I brought my harp and played. I realized I enjoyed playing more now that I wasn’t so obsessed with it. Having something else in my life—Torah and then my husband, Aaron, and my daughter—gave me this . . . openness. I could compartmentalize my playing—it was important, a big piece of my life, but . . . not all there was.”
“Doesn’t playing music have intrinsic worth?” Wendy queried.
“Yes. This is the thing, though. If I died tomorrow, I’d prefer to be remembered as a person who lived her life with Torah values, as a decent human being, than as an outstanding musician. Part of embracing frumkeit is accessing those things that make us more fully human.”
Wendy frowned. This was something she hadn’t quite heard before. Rahel was different from some of her other interviewees in that she had retained her past in her current life. Rahel hadn’t walked away from her past, the world of music, or decided that the world beyond Torah Judaism had no value. “Could you parse that, fully human, for me?”
Rahel said, sipping her tea carefully, “Music accesses aspects of being human, the need to express emotion, to create something of beauty, to be creative. In Jewish life, each holiday reflects and refracts a different emotion. Purim for hilarity, Tisha B’Av for sadness . . .” she looked at Wendy, unsure of how much she needed to explain. “You know about Tisha B’Av?”
Wendy responded, “The commemoration of the destruction of both Temples, though Jews have folded in all catastrophic historical events, like the expulsion from Spain.”
“Good,” smiled Rahel.
“What emotion is Passover?” Wendy asked, deviating from her prepared questions out of curiosity.
“A time of probing and questioning, the beginning of the journey to revelation at Sinai.”
“To you personally, what does it mean?” Wendy continued.
“It’s like when you begin a relationship,”—Rahel saw Wendy blush here, but reserved comment for the time being—“and you feel this fervent love. It says in Jeremiah, lechtaich acharai bamidbar b’eretz lo zeruah.”
Wendy interrupted her, “Translation?”
“‘When you followed after me to a land unsown,’ that the children of Israel, even though they weren’t certain how it
would turn out, were willing to follow God. Passover is that time, the beginning of the relationship, the proof that they were willing to embrace Hashem and follow him to the desert. It culminates at Sinai. To get to certainty or understanding, you need questioning and not knowing. If you don’t bring up those doubts, you can’t proceed beyond them.”
Wendy reacted without her mask of professionalism. “I haven’t heard other baalei teshuvah say that.”
Rahel raised her eyebrows, surprised, “What do you mean?”
“So many seem to . . . just gloss over their difficulties. Or try to. It’s that . . . they want so much to believe, and then they . . . can’t allow themselves the slightest chink in the armor of their faith, because they think it will make the entire suit crumble.”
Rahel said, “I’ve seen people like that; but we’re all responsible grownups and have to make choices. You need to know what you can handle. I’ve never felt that if I just repress my doubts they will go away. I confront them.”
Wendy decided to toss her professional mask entirely now. “With your husband, when did you really know he was the one?”
Rahel said, “You’ve met your basherte, haven’t you?”
Wendy blushed again and stammered, “Okay.” She paused, then continued, “I didn’t come here to talk about myself, but,” she held out her hands in front of her in the motion of a stop sign though she continued to speak, “I just started dating someone. I don’t know how we’ll face some of the obstacles we may have though.”
Rahel took a bite of her Passover brownie and said, peering at Wendy over the pastry, “Which are?”
Wendy realized she hadn’t interviewed anyone older than herself yet. This was odd—having the tables turned by someone so obviously talented and smart. “I’m American; he’s British; we’re both in school. I don’t know where we could live and both have careers. He grew up religious; I didn’t. We’re not at the stage yet where we are even discussing these things—I’m just worrying for the future.”
Rahel added, “Live in Israel. Neither of you will need to compromise.”
“I want a university job. It’s extremely tough to get one here.”
“You never know,” said Rahel, nonchalantly.
“No, you don’t. Anything’s possible,” Wendy added. Then, shyly, she said, “Really, how did you know with your husband?”
Rahel smiled dreamily as she narrated. “I’d gone on a number of shidduch dates, and nothing clicked. Finally, I realized, ‘I need someone who is a musician, who will understand me and my need for music in my life.’ Not a professional musician, just someone with a commitment to it. My rebbetzin said, ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ and Aaron was the next person I went out with. It was as though I had to . . . recognize what I wanted and articulate it before it could happen.”
“What was it like, when you met?”
“We went to a recital, and then to eat, and at dinner we talked the whole time, very comfortably, no awkwardness. Then he said he wanted to hear me play. No one I’d met before had ever asked that. We went back to my apartment, and I played for him, with my door ajar, of course, because it would have been yichud otherwise. My roommates were really angry because it was late by this time and the music woke them. I barely noticed their anger because Aaron really responded to my playing. Then we left the apartment and went out for a walk—it must have been one or two in the morning—and he sang to me. I’d liked him, but the moment he opened his mouth to sing, it completely sealed the deal. I was . . . totally captivated, mesmerized.” Wendy saw Rahel put her chin in her palm and a happy look in her eyes. “He makes sure I have time to practice my harp every day and I give him time to practice singing. We’re committed to each other’s musical growth.” She looked at her watch. “He should be home soon, actually. He usually comes home around now to watch the baby from four to six while I practice. Some nights he goes back to the yeshiva for night seder.” Wendy looked puzzled, so Rahel said, “Evening learning, or to finish up work in his office or make calls overseas.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s an accountant when he isn’t singing and composing. He works for the yeshiva now, so we get this apartment free. A two-bedroom is fine for one, even two, kids, but God willing, we’ll outgrow it. We’re hoping to move to Bat Ayin one day.”
“What’s that?”
“A holistic community. Artists and musicians, organic farmers, massage therapists, and aura readers.”
“Berkeley meets Israel?”
Rahel laughed. “Exactly. Except it is mostly religious, baal teshuvah to be sure, but the politics are diametrically opposed to the views of most Berkeley residents.”
“Do you ever think of going back to the States?” Wendy was curious. “Aaron’s from Australia, so we’re in the middle here. That’s why I suggested it for you and . . .”
“Uri.”
“Uri. My light, I’ve always liked that name. It was one of my choices for Shir-li if she had been a boy.” Rahel continued, “In terms of living in America, I can’t perform on Shabbat, so there are actually more opportunities for me here than in hutz la-aretz, outside Israel. Being a harpist is kind of a unique situation. You aren’t needed by an orchestra all the time, but when you’re needed, you’re crucial. I’m in discussion with the Israel Philharmonic to tour and perform with them as the understudy for a piece in the winter. I don’t want to commit because of the new baby, but on the other hand, knowing I have to perform will force me to keep in top shape. I need that push of having a performance.”
“Great.”
“Not exactly. I don’t see how I could do it—touring in Europe and nursing a baby. Aaron is encouraging me just to accept and then figure it out. Maybe one of our mothers could meet me there, or one of our siblings, but if I have to pay for his sister’s or mother’s ticket from Australia, and her hotel, I wouldn’t end up with much in my pocket at the end. I don’t see the point, but Aaron says I should have the experience; it will open other doors. I think I’ll do it . . .”
The door opened and Aaron entered. Wendy first noticed his eyes, their vivid emerald brightness reminding her of those of a cat shining in the dark. He had curly deep black hair and was wearing an olive green sweater emblazoned with navy and white argyle diamonds, and navy corduroy slacks. Wendy was surprised at how handsome he was. When she saw the muscles on his lower arms under the sweater that was rolled up a bit, she thought he looked as though he could do fifty pushups.
He nodded at Wendy and said, “Hi, I’m Aaron,” with an Australian accent, and went over to the seated Rahel, put his hand on her shoulder, and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “How are you feeling today, my darling?” he asked her. Wendy saw that a thin gold band encircled a finger on the hand that rested on Rahel’s shoulder. Rahel positioned her hand on top of his, and their gold wedding bands made an awkward accidental clank. Rahel looked up at Aaron and smiled in a different way than Wendy had seen her smile before. Wendy had a pang of jealousy, seeing how clearly in love they were. She wished she knew whether she would ever have that sincere and open love with someone. If so, was that person Uri?
Rahel answered him, “I’m feeling good. I was just talking to Wendy about the beginning of our relationship, listening to each other’s music.”
Aaron looked at Wendy with his jewel-toned eyes and told her, “When I heard Rahel play, I knew I wanted that in my life. The harp is such a treasured instrument. The psalmist says, ‘Oora kvodi,’ awaken my glory—awaken the harp and the lyre. Rahel just awoke something in me,” he said, squeezing Rahel’s hand, still on her shoulder. She removed her hand from his and said, “Aaron, don’t embarrass me.”
“Rahel,” he said. They all heard faint wailing and then, more articulate, “Imma, Abba, out, out, Imma, Abba. Shir-li out,” from the second bedroom. Without being asked, Aaron went into the room and they heard his parental patter: “Shir-li. Good morning, honey. Do you want out?”
“Out, Shir-li out,” she assented.
“Okay, sweetie. Here we go.”
Wendy could hear this in the background; she and Rahel continued to talk. Then she heard Aaron sing to his daughter and stopped her own words mid-sentence. It was a nonsense song, syllables strung together. Wendy assumed he had made it up, but she found the sound of his voice astonishing, astounding.
When Aaron finished his ditty, Rahel said to Wendy, “He has an incredible voice, doesn’t he?”
“Rahel, it’s . . . just beautiful. If that’s how he sounds singing a children’s song, I can’t imagine what he is like when he is really making an effort.”
“It’s celestial. For our first anniversary, he commissioned a composer to write a duet for us, voice and harp. It is based on Psalm 42, about the yearning of the soul for God and the need to praise him. We’ve performed it a few times together, for a fundraiser at the yeshiva, on Sukkot. It’s an incredible experience to make music with someone you love . . .”
Aaron re-appeared now, carrying Shir-li on his hip. She had his black curly hair, about shoulder length, and was adorably chubby for a toddler, with a round face and perfectly round pinchable cheeks. She was wearing a pink long-sleeved cotton shirt; a pink, gray, and black plaid elastic-waisted skirt; and white tights on her chunky toddler legs.
When she saw her mother she waved and said, “Hi, Imma.” Rahel waved back and said, “Hi Shir-li.”
Aaron’s eyes were even more green now, Wendy thought, as they gazed with admiration at the first product of his loins. “I just changed her, and if you get us a snack, Imma, we’ll be on our way.” To Shir-li he said, “Do you want to go for a walk with Abba?”
“Abba walk, Abba walk,” she responded with enthusiasm, bobbing her head up and down, up and down, to ascertain that her intent was understood. Rahel got up and went to get a juice box and some cheese sticks from the fridge. As she did this, Wendy chatted with Aaron, “How often do you get to perform? You have quite a voice.”
He looked down, embarrassed. “That’s kind of you Wendy. Really.” He looked back up and added, “I usually do some hazzanus on Shabbos, but I also write music. I have a few guys I perform with, special occasions, Purim, you know.”
Questioning Return Page 37