DISOWNED

by Gabriella Murray

  "It's going to take time until he gets here."

  "Get out there on the stoop where you belong."

  "It's cold out."

  "What do I care?"

  "It could take hours!"

  "You heard me. Get out!"

  Rivkah takes her coat, a few books and pencils, and goes outside to stand on the stoop. She tries to read or write, but is unable. Little by little as she stands there, she feels herself grow more and more pale, thin, insubstantial.

  Henry comes out one more time only, and speaks to her rapidly. "Where is he coming from?"

  "Connecticut. New England."

  "Has he ever been in Brooklyn before?"

  "No."

  "Has he ever even seen a Jew?"

  "He hasn't. And he won't see one either when he comes here."

  Matthew arrives about two hours later. It is dark out and icy by then. He drives up to the house in a taxi, steps out and sees Rivkah sitting there on the stoop. First he pays the driver and then slowly walks over to her.

  "Why are you waiting here?"

  "I'm not allowed inside anymore."

  "Why not?" He looks put out.

  Rivkah cannot explain.

  "Because of me?" He is incredulous.

  "Yes."

  "Really? This is in such bad taste!"

  "Bad taste?" Rivkah laughs.

  "Some kind of joke?" Matthew does not understand.

  "It isn't a joke."

  "Just what is going on?"

  How can Matthew ever understand? Rivkah wonders.

  "I have nowhere to take you," he says then. "Only my cold water flat in Greenwich village."

  "That will be fine," Rivkah says.

  Henry comes to the front door then and stares hard at Matthew.

  "You are not taking her anywhere yet," he says. "First the Rabbis have to come and pronounce her dead."

  Matthew looks up at him astonished. Dead? But Matthew also has a father who hates him. In some strange way, he understands.

  "May I come in for a moment?" Matthew asks Henry politely.

  "Absolutely not." In this world politeness counts for nothing.

  Another car pulls up then and two Rabbis in long, black coats get out of it quickly.

  "Come inside," Henry commands them.

  They walk up the stairs, past Rivkah quickly, their coats flapping against her ever so slightly, as if she were not there at all.

  Rivkah stands with Matthew outside in the cold. Soon more Rabbis will come to pray for her soul. Then others will join them, friends, family, neighbors. People will bring food and cake for seven days to console the family for such a loss.

  "Uncle Reb Bershky would never go along with this," Rivkah calls out to the dark air now. "This is not the true meaning of Torah! Rabbis, you are wrong."

  Henry pushes the door a little open. "Says who?"

  "Uncle Reb Bershky," she begins.

  "And where is your Uncle Reb Bershky now?" Henry shoots back.

  "Gone."

  "So?"

  "So, I heard you wrote all kinds of letters to him too. Did he ever answer one of them?"

  "No."

  "He knew what he was doing. If he saw what happened he would die himself right now."

  Then Henry slams the door hard at her and Rivkah feels him back off into the small rooms he lives in now.

  Then, in another moment, from deep inside the little house come the old, familiar, ancient melodies. A death dirge is being chanted. It is for me Rivkah tries to remind herself.

  But, Rabbis, here I am! Standing outside. Alive, shivering, with Matthew at my side. Look, I am alive! But not anymore. Not in your eyes.

  Then the words of Reb Bershky once again arise. "For certain transgressions, death is the punishment. For certain transgressions, there can be no forgiveness. Without justice, there is no mercy. For everything, you must pay the price."

  In a little while more cars arrive with fresh Rabbis in them. They all rush together into the house and do not even notice that Rivkah is still there. She reaches out to them, but by now she is nothing. Only empty air.

  "Rabbis," she whispers as they fly past her up the stairs, "do you remember that for Abraham, our father, hospitality was the greatest commandment? Everyone was welcomed inside his tent."

  One thin Rabbi notices Rivkah as he rushes up to the house. "And who are you?" he asks her, an excited gleam in his eye. After all, an event like this doesn't happen every day.

  "The daughter of Abraham."

  He stops for a moment and looks. "Who?"

  "The daughter of Abraham."

  "In this generation we are all crazy," he mutters. "There's nothing anymore that can be done."

  The prayers inside get louder and louder. Matthew stands there and listens too. Rivkah knows he has never heard anything like this. The muscles on his face are clenched.

  "This is not at all what I expected. These people are rude."

  "Rude?"

  "I suppose one could view it all as a grotesque play."

  Rivkah is a stranger, a complete stranger, a creature from another land. With all of her heart, she wishes in that horrible moment that she could tell him to go away. But she cannot. She is dead now. She cannot move forward or backwards. Now, for sure, there is no one who will have her. For now she can only stand still.

  But without death, there is no resurrection. Without dying, one cannot be born. With her whole, trembling mind, Rivkah now grabs onto the little Zen teachings she has carried so fervently with her all these years. Life and death are the same, it tells her. First we breathe in, then we breathe out.

  But for now the prayers for the dead go around and around Rivkah. "Yiska Dal, vay Yiska Dav. God is gracious, God is good. In life as in death, we have nothing else to do. For everything that happens, we must praise God."

  CHAPTER 17

  Dead. Rivkah is mourned as dead, and obediently she dies to her life as she once knew it. The College will not let her and her new husband return because of all the complications. So they move into the cold water flat which Matthew has in Greenwich Village. Rivkah takes writing classes, gets a part time job, and keeps writing in her diary; comments, notes, and mostly letters to Rabbis back home. Endless letters which she never mails.

  Hey you, Rabbis, from a corner of the exile I'm writing to you. If you look carefully you can find me, your daughter, lost somewhere downtown.

  In the Talmud it is said you must send letters to One Hundred Rabbis, to get approval for a Get - a Jewish divorce. By now Rivkah has written only 49. What is the bond she seeks to sever? She wonders as she writes and writes.

  The flat she and Matthew live in is a simple walk through with a long, brick wall and a wooden divider that separates two small rooms. A little light comes in from the side window, but basically it is dark inside, and spare. Also, it is cold. Aside from some bookshelves for Rivkah's books and papers, it is practically empty. Rivkah likes it that way. She enjoys the starkness of her new surroundings.

  The building they live in is filled with artists and actors. A tall, thin painter, Natan, who lives two doors down, tells Rivkah she looks like a Modigliani painting and that he works on a portrait of her late at night.

  Downstairs, on the street floor, shady guys come to the back apartment to bet on horses. All kinds of men walk in and out all day long. Rivkah enjoys sitting outside, on the front stairs of the building and watching them. Are these her father's friends, she wonders? Some of the "natural" men her father works with downtown?

  Soon, some recognize her, give a grin, or a hello. Do you know my father? She wants to ask them. Have you seen him around? How is he doing? Would you tell him for me, Bekkie says hello.

  ***

  Married to Matthew, Rivkah's name is now changed to Watson. Her face is changed too. Her hair is cut short and she begins to wear the chic clothes he chooses for her. While the people she meets think she is pretty, she has no idea who she really is anymore.

  It is almost spring
when Matthew tells Rivkah that his mother has started to call. "She says she is ready to meet you now."

  Rivkah feels a quick chill.

  "Take a deep breath," Matthew says. "We'll go only for a quick visit. It won't be so bad."

  It is almost noon on a cool, clear morning when Matthew and Rivkah get into a car and drive slowly up to Connecticut. All along the highway the leaves on the still bare trees are bristling with new buds about to burst through.

  Matthew's home is a huge American Colonial on top of a long, manicured, rolling lawn. As Rivkah and Matthew walk up to the front door a maid in a black uniform opens it and ushers them through the main hallway into a sitting room at the side.

  "Your mother will be right with you, sir," she says crisply, points to a small green sofa for them to sit down on, and quickly disappears.

  The room is large and imposing, with ceilings of double height, and windows that reach from ceiling to floor. There are several sofas in it covered in delicate floral prints. A little further down are also fine settees besides antique tables on which are displayed beautiful china that has been passed down carefully through the generations. On the wall hang large oil portraits of the founding fathers of America.

  "One of them, Wendell," Matthew motions to the portraits, "is related to my mother. We trace our family tree to the Mayflower."

  Just at that moment, two French doors open, and Matthew's mother enters slowly. She is a tall, rather gallant, perfectly manicured woman without even the slightest visible flaw. Dressed in a silk lavender suit her hair is coiffed stiffly, almost like a fluffy blue and white hat around her head.

  She does not sit down with them. Instead she takes a tiny step closer and inspects Rivkah with cool, steel grey eyes. For a horrible moment, Rivkah is thankful that Matthew has chosen everything she is wearing today.

  "Well, she's a child," Genevive says, after what seems like an eternity. "Rather pretty too. Would she care for a cup of tea?" Her words are addressed to Matthew only.

  "No, thank you," Rivkah answers for herself.

  Both of them look at her sharply then. Obviously, in this home people speak out only at certain moments. A kind of permission must first be granted. This permission has not been granted to Rivkah. Rivkah takes it anyway. "But thank you."

  "Well, she's had a long drive now, hasn't she?" Genevive continues speaking only to Matthew.

  "She's not very thirsty," Matthew replies, and suddenly Rivkah finds it hard to breathe. She feels her chest heaving blindly for the slightest gasp of fresh air.

  "I've arranged a little gathering in your honor," Genevive's back is almost entirely to Rivkah now. "No one can understand, of course, why in the world you eloped. Least of all me."

  Rivkah winces forcefully. She is the unknown, the feared, the detestable thief who has stolen this woman's son away. Genevive will never understand why or how this has happened. She will never forgive Rivkah, or wish to see her again. One time is enough. One

  time is too many. It is all said in her look.

  "Now, why did you two elope?" Genevive asks Matthew once or twice more over the weekend. But she never listens for an answer. In her presence Rivkah is turned into a phantom. She is not seen, may not be heard, and spends most of the weekend outside alone, walking back and forth on the beautiful, rolling lawn. After the weekend is over neither Rivkah nor Matthew return to see Genevive again.

  As the days pass, Rivkah and Matthew are friendly to one another, strangers in some ways, companions in others. Little emotion passes between them. It is as if cool winds were blowing over all parts of Rivkah's life.

  A world without emotion, she writes in her diary, is a world of clarity. Empty though. Peculiarly empty, like unformed snow.

  Outcasts from the separate worlds they were raised in, the two of them share meals, conversations and a group of new friends.

  My own world is gone, she writes. Vanished. But how can a world vanish just like that?

  But it has. There is no sight, taste or sounds of her family. Not one of them is allowed to contact her. She is completely dead.

  Still, Matthew enjoys introducing his friends to Rivkah and she enjoys meeting them. Before he takes her to them, he carefully chooses the dresses and colors she is to wear. For Matthew it is comforting. It is as though he has found some exotic creature. A creature that in no way reminds him of his home.

  She is a creature, too, that asks little of him. When he stays up, alone, through the long hours at night, needing space, unwilling to come to bed, Rivkah stays by herself in the other room, deep inside her little book, On Zen.

  "Keep reading that book," Matthew is delighted with it. "I agree with it whole-heartedly. Attachment is ridiculous. The whole world is absurd."

  "That's not what it says. That's a complete misunderstanding."

  "What does it say?"

  "Come read it yourself."

  "Not today." He never takes it beyond that either.

  As the days go by, hungry for more, Rivkah decides it is time to return to college, in the city this time. Matthew decides to leave theater and finds himself a place in the business world. Change is upon them Rivkah realizes, and it is good.

  Early that autumn, just before the new term, Rivkah and Matthew move uptown into a bright, one bedroom apartment near Columbia University. She brings wooden eating bowls, straw mats, books, and pictures of Zen Masters, which smile at her from the walls. Gratefully, she smiles in return.

  Rabbis, she writes that night, I have moved uptown, here on the fourteenth floor with sun, sky, and pictures. But not your pictures! I have new pictures with me, pictures of the Awakened Ones. They keep me company all night long and look at me with no judgments in their eyes.

  Rivkah thinks of her own family then. There is no one she can tell about what is going on. Most of all she wonders about her little brother David, about how he is growing, and if the family ever talks to him about her at all.

  Classes at college start a few days later and she also takes a part-time job in a nearby bookstore. A slightly bent over, old Jewish man with grey hair, runs the bookstore. Hyman Needleman. He says very little to her during the week, but puts her salary in a paper envelope for her every Friday afternoon and hands it to her directly.

  "Is it enough for you?" he asks kindly.

  "It is."

  One Friday afternoon, he looks at her more closely from under his bushy eyebrows as he is handing over the envelope. "You're married so young?"

  "I am." She doesn't want to talk further.

  "It's personal?"

  Rivkah flushes.

  "You don't want me to ask you anything?"

  Rivkah pulls sharply back. "Of course it's personal."

  "You'll excuse me," he says very slowly, "but for no reason at all, you look very familiar to me."

  Rivkah's heart starts beating madly. "How can that be?"

  "I can't put my finger on it."

  Trembling, she puts the envelope down on the counter. Her mind starts racing. Could he be from Brooklyn? From the old neighborhood?

  "Here take it back. I don't want it."

  The old man is startled. "It's your pay."

  "I don't want it."

  "What?"

  Then, like a fugitive, she turns on her heel and runs to the door.

  Babbling a little, he chases after her. "Did I say something? I'm sorry. I'm sorry. What did I do?"

  But, by then, Rivkah is out of the store and down the street. Far down the street.

  He must know me from Brooklyn. Where else can he know me from? But she doesn't want anyone to know she is here. Not even a trace of herself does she want to leave behind.

  "I've got to find a new job," she tells Matthew after a few days.

  "Why?" He looks at her strangely. He is rising in the company and a group of new people have started to surround him. There are meetings, lunches, calls and dinners with tall, blonde and elegant people, not unlike, Rivkah imagines, the people he once knew at home.

&
nbsp; Matthew is delighted with this new world he's found himself in. He buys new suits, combs his hair back straight, and many nights sits in his office late at work. When he has to, he takes Rivkah to meetings with him. Only when he has to.

  Quickly she learns how to look like his companions, talk with them, go to fashionable restaurants, drink cocktails and laugh. What are they laughing at, she wonders? Though she is not certain she laughs along, and looks away from the scathing emptiness that is growing inside.

  Whenever Rivkah arrives with Matthew, a tall blonde, Vivien, who works in his office, throws her a long side glance. She is cool and uncomfortable with Rivkah though Rivkah can't put her finger on why.

  "That's a marvelous dress you're wearing, Vivien." Rivkah tries to make her feel better. "The account is doing very well, I suppose."

  Vivien turns away uneasily, and dashes over to someone else. After two or three more cocktails, she rushes over to Matthew's side, slips her arm in his arm and chatters madly. Rivkah watches the two of them nonplussed. They fit together, she thinks to herself.

  In many ways Matthew is good to Rivkah. He encourages her studies and even insists that she go on.

  "I want you to know," he tells her outright one evening as they are both sitting on the couch reading, "that I am thrilled you spend so much time with your books."

  Rivkah has been deep inside a book. She looks up from it surprised.

  "You don't make all kinds of crazy demands on me. Some women can't stop making demands."

  The book Rivkah has been reading falls open in her lap.

  "Hungry women." Matthew sneers.

  Rivkah wonders who he is talking about? "Which women, Matthew? There's another woman?"

  "Don't be ridiculous. I'm just trying to tell you that no woman should expect all her satisfaction in a marriage with a man. Least of all from me. I'm not that kind of guy."

  Rivkah swallows hard.

  "I like having a woman who can take care of herself. I never meant to marry a cow." He declares this with surprising force.

  "A cow?" Rivkah feels stung, insulted. She thinks of the women she has known growing up in Borough Park who stayed at home and raised huge families, one child after the next. She had never thought of them as cows. "I wouldn't exactly call women cows!"