Tremble

by Tobsha Learner

  Miriam gazed at the rotund figure of her husband as he leaned back content, the plate before him wiped clean of everything, even the gravy.

  “And I thought I married an intellectual,” he said, smiling.

  “An intellectual who could cook, of this I made sure,” his mother chipped in, perched at the other end of the table like a sparrow.

  “Now don’t get comfortable. We’re due at the shriebel in half an hour—there’s discussion group on tonight,” Miriam announced, already clearing away the plates.

  Aaron, who was far less enthusiastic than his wife about the informal synagogues that had sprung up spontaneously in houses around the neighborhood, sneaked a look at the file he’d left on the heavy oak dresser his father had hauled out of occupied Hungary some sixty years before.

  Miriam, who noticed everything, followed his gaze. “Oh, do you have to work?”

  “No, but there’s something I have to think about.”

  “If it involves ethics you should come to the group—the topic is the issue of privacy and disclosure. I heard it from Jacov’s wife. The women, I think, will be discussing the same.”

  Aaron looked sharply at her as if she had guessed his own mind. Miriam smiled sweetly back.

  “Come, you know I love to think of you as a philosopher.”

  “And I you,” he replied, unable to resist the mischievous humor that played in her eyes. His mother cackled.

  “You know, once my Aaron was so shy he never raised his voice, now he’s a regular Trotsky. For the first time I realize he takes after me and not his schlemiel of a father,” she said, marveling at the transformation the inhibited young woman had wrought in the great awkward hulk of a man. Perhaps two shy halves make one proud whole, she thought, and wondered when she should expect grandchildren.

  Children were the last thing on Aaron’s mind as he glanced once more at the ominous file. He knew that, were he to open it, the first page would be marked Do Not Disclose. The face of his superior, O’Brien, loomed before him. A striking man, always immaculately groomed, there was something inherently dangerous about him, an unpredictability that glittered under the impeccably polite veneer. Had he seen Aaron that morning coming out of the archives department?

  The image of Hinkel arguing behind the glass door of O’Brien’s office suddenly flashed into Aaron’s mind; an event he’d accidentally witnessed just days before Hinkel’s disappearance. Hinkel had been gesturing wildly, like some silent, terrified clown, while O’Brien just stood there, his face an impassive mask except for his eyes. Those pale blue eyes that always reminded Aaron of Hollywood Nazis. It was hard to trust a man whose eyes were paler than his hair. What if O’Brien had seen him with the file? What then? Again, anxiety trickled down his spine to fasten itself around his stomach.

  The shriebel was in an attractive three-story brownstone sandwiched between the yeshiva and a community center. Already the room was crowded with men in their formal black coats and yarmulkes. Ranging from twenty-year-olds barely out of religious school to forty-year-old patriarchs, the discussion group sat in a semicircle in front of a radiator. A photograph of the leader of the Lubavitch community, the Rebbe himself, stared down at them, the face with its white beard, gray shock of hair, and piercing eyes as familiar to them as that of the president. The chatter of the women in an adjoining room was audible through the thin wall. As with all activities in the community the sexes were segregated.

  Aaron surveyed the familiar faces: Mr. Farras, Adam Rosen, Jacob Lowenstein, his brother Moses, the young rabbi whose fervor was infectious and whose Sephardic name Aaron always found unpronounceable and forgettable, and then the usual flotsam that had drifted in—visitors from Israel, family from other states. The claims assessor positioned himself in the largest chair in the room; even then his mass sprawled out below the armrests and took up the space of two men.

  “The issue this evening is that of disclosure,” the rabbi began. “On many occasions as a rabbi you will face the dilemma of whether it is ever acceptable to break the code of privacy. As an adviser to the community, people confide in you but there are situations when you might consider it your duty to disclose information for ethical reasons. For example, if a woman confides in you that she is having an affair, do you tell her husband? Or the case in England now, where a rabbi is being sued because he told a man that his wife was not attending the mikvah. In an event like this, what does one do? In the Talmud we read how…”

  The fledgling rabbi’s voice droned on and Aaron, contented by dinner and the heat of the radiator, struggled to keep his eyes open. As he began to doze off a car part floated across his vision; he recognized it immediately.

  “…Should one conceal information for the greater good?”

  At the word conceal Aaron’s eyes flew open. “N-no, I think n-not,” he stammered, “even if it means the demise of that individual, even if the short-term profit of the institution in question is in jeopardy, for surely it is b-better to act in the greater good even if that means demotion, b-bankruptcy, the end of your career.”

  In the ensuing silence Aaron blushed furiously; he’d interrupted abruptly and out of context. The rest of the men searched each other’s faces, confused. Aaron’s close friend Ira Weinstein spoke up.

  “I think what Aaron means is that, unlike Marx, the means justify the end. In other words, it is better to be a Judas to save a nation than stay silent to save a village.”

  The rest of the group nodded politely, still not understanding a word of Aaron’s outburst. As Mr. Farras, a closet Darwinist, launched into a tirade about the evolutionary advantages of favoring individual survival over that of the collective, the claims assessor fell into a painful reverie.

  Should he act on the contents of the file? For years he’d fought to defend the reputation of his company, and now this—a vital piece of information that entirely undermined not only his own stance but his confidence in the company itself. He had been lied to, used as a stool pigeon. How could they do that to a religious, morally upright man such as himself? His most secret fear, the idea that he was inherently naive against an ethically bankrupt world, rose up before him like a relentless black obelisk. They’d sought him out as a student, homing in on all that youthful gullibility, then exploited him ruthlessly. Aaron Gluckstein was a sucker. The fall guy. The fat buffoon in the corner.

  This was the company that prided itself on its policy of placing people over profit. That was their byline; the phrase, Let Us Cradle Your Life in Our Hands, was printed on every insurance policy they sent out. Aaron had never felt less safe in his life. The deep-rooted cynicism of the act he’d uncovered made him shiver. Whatever the company’s motivation, it was a profound betrayal and one that wiped out twenty years of unquestioning loyalty, but the real issue was: what should he do now? Now that he had in his possession a piece of information that could save thousands of people’s lives and cost the company millions?

  “Aaron?”

  Drawn back into the moment Aaron looked around wildly. The young rabbi put his hand gently on his knee.

  “I think it would help the group if you shared the specifics of the moral dilemma you were talking about? Because surely one cannot separate the needs of the individual from the community—”

  “No, no, that would be impossible,” Aaron replied aggressively, suddenly fearful his mind might be read. He stood, pushing his chair back, his bulk suddenly filling the room. “I’m sorry.”

  He stumbled blindly to the back of the room, then, without knocking, opened the door to the women’s meeting. “Miriam,” he said sharply, interrupting a heated debate on fertility cycles, the moon, and religious law. He peered short-sightedly into the array of seated women, a jarring medley of colorful long-sleeved sweaters and headscarfs punctuated by several rather glamorous wigs. There was a flurry of activity as everyone turned to see who the audacious intruder was.

  Worried, Miriam rose to her feet. “Aaron, is everything okay?” she asked, aware of th
e whispered disapproval around her.

  “Yes, but we are leaving now,” Aaron announced, indifferent to the women. Flushed, the new wife mumbled her apologies as she pushed her way past the seated matrons.

  The rabbi stopped them at the front door and took Aaron’s arm.

  “I hope we haven’t said anything to offend you? Normally you are so good at debate.”

  “No, Rabbi, it’s just that tonight I have no energy or patience to discuss philosophy. There is too much real life out there to worry about.”

  Aaron stepped out into the street, the bluish air freezing his cheeks and beard.

  “Come.”

  Miriam, wrapped by now in a voluminous gray woollen coat and hat, whispered a quick apology and left the chagrined cleric standing in the doorway.

  “May the burden he is carrying be lifted,” the rabbi muttered before closing the door against the wind.

  Outside it had begun to snow. Aaron, in a bid to clear his whirling brain, took a few deep breaths of the icy air. What did it matter about the file? He had his wife and his family. Now slightly ashamed of his behavior, he checked to see whether the street was empty—it was—then quickly brought his wife’s hand up to his lips to kiss. Physical contact between men and women in public was a religious transgression, even between married couples, but Aaron couldn’t control his affection. Miriam smiled back and they strolled together, like an established married couple should, relaxed and unworried by the swirling snow.

  On Union Street Aaron noticed that a light was still burning in the window of Number 770, the great synagogue. Excusing himself and promising he’d be home ten minutes after her, Aaron left Miriam and ran across the road. The door was still open. Knocking the melting snowflakes from his shoulders Aaron entered.

  He sat in the back row, fingering his prayer shawl beneath his black coat as he stared at the Torah, its scrolls encased in silver and gold locked behind the gates of the ark. Then, sighing deeply, he bowed his head and began rocking, mouthing a meditation given to him personally by the Rebbe himself before he passed over to the other side.

  Five minutes later the claims assessor stood, astounded at the clarity that streamed through him. He knew exactly what to do; there would be no more agonizing, no more arguing with himself. Cheered immensely by his newfound resolve he left the synagogue.

  Miriam lay in bed waiting for Aaron to finish in the bathroom. She could hear him brushing his teeth, knew that after that he would step on the scale, then sigh, then—if they were going to make love—he would splash on aftershave before unlocking the door and climbing carefully into bed beside her, as if frightened of waking her. She, of course, would be playing along, her heavy flannel nightgown pulled down below her knees; her hair, long and luxurious, now exposed for her husband’s eyes and spread artfully across the pillow; her eyes pressed shut, pretending she is sleeping.

  He was opening the bathroom door now; the floorboards squeaked as he attempted to walk silently across to the bed. Miriam sniffed quietly. Yes, there was the faint smell of aftershave. Immediately her heart quickened in excitement; she even imagined herself moistening at the scent. It was their signal, his first move in the elaborate game of courtship they’d built up over the year.

  Both virgins, their first forays into lovemaking had been disastrous, a parody of clumsy gestures they’d gleaned separately from friends and clandestine glimpses at instructive magazines to which they had no proper access. Having grown up within the Orthodox community, where sex was considered a sacred and spiritual communication between married people, they were both desperately timid. It was a naïveté that was understandable, but a considerable hindrance to a practical knowledge of important working parts.

  It had taken a week before Aaron was able to penetrate Miriam at all, his fear of hurting her superseding his desire. It was only when Myra found her daughter-in-law weeping in the corner of the dim bedroom one morning that she discovered their utter lack of experience. Myra, a pragmatist and ex-libertine, would have none of it.

  “Oi gevalt!” the ninety-year-old had exclaimed after laughing a little then weeping a little. “Such pleasure is sanctified by God! Look at the Song of Solomon! To worship your husband’s body and he yours is not a sin but a spiritual duty. In fact, according to religious law if he is not pleasuring you there are grounds for divorce. But even Sarah and Abraham needed a little instruction.”

  Grabbing the young woman’s hand she pulled her up to the crowded bedroom at the top of the house where Myra had slept since the death of her husband some fifty years before. She pulled an ancient copy of The Joy of Sex from the bookshelf, dusted it off, and pushed it into her daughter-in-law’s hands.

  “This you read, you learn, and then you leave it accidentally on purpose on Aaron’s desk. If he asks, it is mine from my sinful days. Believe me, it will work.”

  And so it did. A few weeks later at the mikvah, the bath attendant was prompted to ask Miriam why she was smiling so much.

  “Because my husband has sent me to heaven at least five times this month.” A reply that caused the bath attendant, a sober woman in her fifties, to smile too.

  In short, Aaron’s clumsiness had been replaced by an enthusiasm tempered by a newly acquired knowledge he was happy to practice on his wife. No wonder Miriam now waited in the bed with such impatience.

  She lay quietly beside her husband for a few minutes, anxious for him to make his customary move—a deft caress of her breasts beneath her nightdress—but nothing happened. Finally abandoning any pretense of submissiveness she reached across and touched his penis. It was limp.

  “Sorry, honey, it’s work.”

  Miriam switched on the bedside lamp. “Is it the file?”

  He sat up, amazed at the intuition of women.

  “You haven’t read it, have you?”

  “Of course not. I would never do anything like that without your permission.”

  “I can’t talk about it, not yet. But you trust me, don’t you?”

  “Always.”

  “It’s an ethical issue, there’s a lot at stake. My job, the company’s future, maybe even my life….”

  Startled, she sat up.

  “Aaron! Stop being dramatic, you’re frightening me.”

  “I don’t know, remember Hinkel? Hinkel made a noise about something, I’m not sure what, and then he’s gone. Suddenly, just like that.”

  “You think the company—”

  “Shhh! I’m trying not to think anything at the moment. All I know is that when something’s wrong the public has the right to know….”

  “But the company’s never let you down before.”

  He drank in her confidence, wishing he had more of her blind faith. She is younger than me, he thought, she is sheltered by the community. She hasn’t experienced the world beyond, a cosmos that is morally ambiguous, that is complex in its judgment, but I love her nevertheless. Kissing her he felt a ripple of passion in his loins.

  “Wake me early in the morning,” he whispered softly, as if he feared the Almighty would hear his lust, then he relaxed his morally conflicted bulk and in an instant he was asleep and snoring.

  Aaron Gluckstein was famous for two things. One was his sneeze: allergic to dust, he would often fire off a series of earsplitting eruptions that sounded like sudden sharp gunshots. The other was his snore. It was legendary: an incessant rumbling that began in the back of the throat, like a low growl, and built until it reached a pitch that caused eardrums to vibrate, set windowpanes rattling and dogs howling. Oblivious to the suffering it inflicted, the snore continued to increase until it peaked suddenly in a high-pitched whistle, only to start the cycle all over again, all night through. Complex in its musicality it was the mother of all snores, the maestro of uncontrollable body noises, putting other physical faux pas such as burping, breaking wind, and stomach growls firmly in the shade.

  In another era Aaron might have had a lucrative career as a circus performer, Myra often told him. “Aaron: the
snore that shook a nation,” she would say, picturing an enormous striped tent with a hand-painted sign with gold lettering, her son sleeping soundly in his pajamas behind a veil of gauze watched by an amazed and adoring audience. Myra had even considered the possibility of matchmaking him with a deaf wife, so worried was she about finding any woman who would tolerate such a racket. When she had come upon the weeping Miriam a month after the wedding, Myra was terrified Aaron’s new wife was going to announce that she could no longer tolerate his sleeping habits. To hear that her son was merely an incompetent lover was a huge relief—this she could rectify.

  As for Miriam, the snore had been a problem. For the first week the poor woman had hardly slept, lying beside this colossus who transformed into a howling wind-box every time he fell asleep. Driven to the brink of exhaustion she took sleeping pills, but found that the snore penetrated even through the muffled dreaming the drugs induced, thus transforming the beating of an angel’s wings into the roar of an approaching train, the gentle lapping of a phosphorescent sea into a screaming tempest.

  After much deliberation and a visit to her favorite rabbi who had advised her to, “Be like water around a rock: embrace the rock, accept it, then begin to erode it quietly,” Miriam had decided that her only course of action was to incorporate the noise into her own rituals for falling asleep. And so Aaron’s young wife from Chicago trained herself, like Pavlov’s dog, not only to relax alongside her husband’s snore but to love it and even expect it. Within a month she could not get to sleep without the accompanying orchestrated cacophony of whistling air and grunts. So now, smiling at the familiar rumble, she curled up against him and fell asleep.