by Yvonne Fein
‘You’ve only known her for six.’
‘But I saw her day-in, day-out all that time, whereas you—you only see her some weekends. How well can you honestly say you know her?’
Again, the silence. It was difficult for us to look at one another.
‘Are we really fighting over her?’ he said at last. His eyes were guarded, his tone cautious.
‘I hear you offered to convert for her.’
‘I did, yes.’ He looked bemused at the non sequitur.
‘There’s a Persian word—Taarof—which means that you’ve promised something but expect the other not to take you up on the offer and to keep on declining it.’
‘I made the offer in good faith,’ he objected, ‘but she kept on refusing’.
‘I rest my case.’
‘Why are you being like this? Don’t you believe someone can love her so deeply?’ He paused. ‘You did.’
Which finally took away my words.
We returned to the bar and the vodka. A few shots in, I said, ‘I’m scared for her’.
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘So am I. But I can protect her.’
‘She won’t want you to do that.’
‘She won’t even know it’s happening.’
‘You think you’re that good?’ I asked.
‘I have to be.’
‘I used to be the one,’ I said.
‘Protecting her?’
‘What else?’
‘Now you’ll have me to keep you company. That should make things easier not harder. For both of us. Don’t be afraid, he won’t stop loving you.’ He held my gaze and then raised his glass. ‘To Carla,’ he said. ‘To both of us looking out for her.’
‘All for one,’ I said and, as though he knew exactly what I meant, swiftly tossed back two more shots.
‘I shouldn’t have given you such a hard time,’ I said.
‘She said you would.’
JANUARY 1973
O-week, Orientation week. We were already enrolled when we went to Monash University to put our names down for clubs and activities. I signed up for the swimming team, and for working on the newspaper, Lot’s Wife.
The campus is huge. With my impeccable sense of direction, I feared I would never be able to find my car again after lectures. I took to looking, long and fearfully, over my shoulder as I walked to class trying to impress upon my memory my car’s position. I wished for a sack of breadcrumbs.
I was going for a double degree. My law subjects in first term were ‘Introduction to Legal Reasoning’ and ‘Research and Writing’. Sounds reasonably interesting, though everybody said that there was very little in Law that was not one huge yawn. I decided to go for French and German in the Arts Faculty. With my Lac d’Or intensif training I thought I should have a sizeable advantage, particularly in German.
Strangely enough the lessons of finishing school and the kibbutz would translate into an ability to focus on even the most mind-numbing subject matter. Anyone who had sat through those excruciating Etiquette sessions with Madame, or endured days, weeks, months of manually harvesting citrus fruit would find first year Law/Arts child’s play.
MARCH 1973
Almost a month went by. It was very serious, this university business. In Law, there were nasty little quizzes lobbed at us without any warning and they counted in our final reckoning of results. In both French and German, I found myself sitting at the top of the class after most tests. Here, I didn’t mind having surprise quizzes tossed into the linguistic mix. I was always ready. I loved the security of that. I suppose my thanks are due firstly to Frau Bachmeier but then, even more so, to Lac d’Or’s Frau Albrecht and Mlle Sedrille. Without their rigorous input, I’d have been just another struggling under-grad. Oh, and thanks to my parents, too, for putting me in harm’s way.
APRIL 1973
And so, another month bit the dust. I met an interesting fellow at an editorial session of Lot’s Wife. He told me his name was Gideon. I laughed and said that its meaning made him warrior and judge over Israel. He was amazed that I knew such a thing and I said twelve years at Mount Scopus College—fourteen, if you counted kindergarten—had to be good for something.
‘But I know lots of Scopus kids and none of them would have a clue.’
‘I was in that exceedingly small minority who loved Jewish Studies and all that came under its aegis.’
‘Aegis?’
‘Under the protection or auspices.’
‘I know what it means. I’ve just never heard anyone use it before.’
‘That’s probably because architecture students don’t like big words.’
‘I’m doing a double degree. English major.’
‘Now you’re just showing off.’
‘Is it working?’
At that point Lot’s Wife editorial meetings became a whole lot more interesting. And it didn’t hurt that he was Jewish. Even if we hadn’t spoken, I would have known. Jews tend to recognise one another at forty paces. Often, we can even tell whether the parents of those we’re talking to are Australian-born or Holocaust survivors. Not quite sure how, but it’s how we roll.
Finally, a letter from Carla. It was about four months since her last.
Dearest, Sweetest Katie,
Forgive my unforgivable silence these past few months. I suppose we could have rung each other, but we didn’t. For some reason, it’s been mostly mail. So here we are again, or here I am, thrown in at the deep end, four months into my classes on Judaism. I’m being taught by a rabbi’s wife—the Rebbitzen Ayala—who is no mean scholar in her own right. I think she might be something of a radical, but more of that later.
We learn together each week for a couple of hours in her family’s little flat on Sussex Street, above a newsagency. She starts me off with the laws pertaining to what’s kosher and what’s not. So much for Sunday brunch and crispy bacon with eggs Benedict. (I suppose I knew about the bacon bit but was hoping she might not insist on it). No more pizzas with salami and cheese, either. And seafood—that’s a whole other avenue of pleasure now cut off. But I’m not really complaining.
Ariel is gentle, so gentle, with me, my questions, and with the whole Catholic, Biancardi package. I said I wanted to keep my name after we’re married, and he said of course. Anything to make my journey easier, lighter, more sustainable.
Whether we sit opposite each other, coffee cups in hand, or lie facing each other, there is never any doubt about our feelings for one another: intense, acute, extreme.
I’m not sure I told you that he lives in a bright, airy apartment on Hyde Park near Knightsbridge. When we’re both free, I tend to go to London more often than he comes to Cambridge. Much more space and privacy than could be expected in my rooms.
Then the R. Ayala ushered me into a strange cavern replete with mediaeval lore and law. I was bewildered, repelled, disorientated. The subject is called ‘Family Purity’ and has to do with the blood taboos surrounding menstruation. Each month a woman must cleanse herself in the ritual bath, or mikveh (as you must know the bath is called in Hebrew), once her period is over. Prior even to being allowed to go to the baths she must have rigorously checked that there is no trace of blood left inside her. I absolutely cannot bring myself to explain how she’s supposed to do that.
Do you know? Does every Jewish woman know this? Observe this?
After the ritual cleansing the woman goes home to make love to her husband with the express intention of conceiving a child. Her fertility rhythms have been calculated so that post-mikveh she is at that time in her cycle which will make her most vulnerable to conception.
And here is where I get to the point about R. Ayala’s radicalism.
The ritual bath, she tells me, is supposed to be for married women, but the law does not clearly state that this is the case. What we are clearly enjoined to do is to be sure that we are
ritually clean before we make love to our partners. That is all.
I tell her I’m not really sure where she’s going with this. Carla, motek, Carla, sweetie,’ she says, her tone tender, ‘I believe the law is saying that the cleansing is more important for the couple than marriage vows. God would rather you submerge yourself in the sacred waters before lying with your partner than He would be to see you married and not cleansed.’
‘Are you arguing that intercourse is all right as long as the woman has been to mikveh?’
‘All I can say—again—is that it’s far more important for a woman to have cleansed herself for her partner than to marry and not be observant of the law.’
Katie, this is getting so complicated. It’s more than eight months since we first met. I would fear for my sanity were Ariel not by my side all the time, making things right. Obviously, I would never have gone down this path without him but for all his forbearance, his kindness, I sometimes feel so alone.
It would be amazing if you could come over here for a while. We could talk, debrief and maybe you could attend some of those classes with me. Then you and Ariel could each hold one of my hands and I would feel unconditionally, entirely, protected.
Carla
I never did go. Perhaps I was simply too engrossed in my own life and work to drop everything and fly over. Did I feel responsible for the direction her life had taken her? I don’t know. Her responsiveness to Ariel was probably enhanced because of the time she and I had spent together at Lac d’Or. I can’t deny that. But for all that came after, I’m not sure I have to own that. I don’t think I’ll ever know.
MAY 1973
And then, of course, there was Gideon, my hero of Lot’s Wife fame. He played Australian Rules football; was also president of the Monash Union of Jewish Students. And he liked me.
Although we had not yet been intime, as Carla might have said, I suspected it would not be long. I wanted to. We had done dinner, brunch, movies, long walks around the Botanical Gardens. We had talked and talked and talked. I had this hope that when it happened, if it happened, it might actually exorcise the whole Freddy debacle.
JUNE 1973
In June we sat our first exams. Passed Law with Credit and French and German with High Distinction. And from her letters it seemed that Carla was gliding through all her subjects quite effortlessly.
JULY 1973
I had this idiot fantasy where I sent Mme Mirielle a transcript of my results. That’d show her.
AUGUST 1973
I found I laughed a lot with Gideon. He was a peace-abiding soul, but could get riled about subjects to do with Israel, apartheid, or any sort of racism. I liked being in his company. I liked the peace of him.
NOVEMBER 1973
The Yom Kippur War was over, but would it never end—boys and girls being sent across borders to die in the dead of night? Still in place is the Khartoum Resolution of 1967, otherwise known as The Three No’s: no peace with Israel, no recognition of Israel, no negotiations with it. It was not right, but neither were we, hanging on to the West Bank and Gaza.
Give them back, already.
Carla and I continued to send each other lengthy telegrams and even occasionally spoke by phone, but the connection between us was suffering. Between working at my Law and Arts subjects and the rest of the things I had signed up for, to say nothing of my ongoing involvement with Gideon (and this was slowly wandering towards talk of marriage), I barely had time to look in the mirror to see how I was changing.
On one of her rare phone calls, Carla told me that now she and Ariel had to make love in secret. This was because the court in charge of conversions would frown heavily on such a practice. Not only that, but it would, in all probability, expel her from the programme, a fate which not even the Biancardi name and money, could influence. Still the two of them persisted. What a precipitous course they navigated, with Ariel also in danger.
I remember silently cheering for them. And fearing for them. I wrote to her, warning her to be careful, so careful. Please.
She sent me a telegram. I tore it open. Five words:
YOU ARE NOT MY MOTHER.
JANUARY 1974
Gideon and I married last month, a quiet little ceremony for closest friends and family. We didn’t want to do the extravaganza-splurge thing, something which quite disappointed both our families.
‘Give us the money for a down payment on a house instead of a reception,’ we said.
‘We were going to give you that anyway.’
‘So give us both amounts,’ we joked.
And they did. Jewish parents.
Now we had a manageable mortgage with Gideon working in a high-profile architecture firm. I was still studying, three years to go, but a barrister friend of my Dad’s offered me a clerkship for the summer months. That meant I could contribute to the payments too.
Our days were filled with exhilaration. We were forging the way for a better world into which we would bring our four children—we hadn’t actually decided on the number, yet. It might have been three or five. Well five, actually, because that’s what we ended up with. But that was still to come.
Gideon was working to design environmentally-friendly houses and factories. Well before climate change had been heralded as the next major disaster to affect our planet, he was an early predictor of what he called the approaching apocalypse.
I was thinking seriously of specialising in environmental law; and I loved the idea that the two us were intersecting rather than parallel lines. I know some of our friends thought we had a few kangaroos loose in the top paddock, but we were a strong team. It never bothered us too much what others thought.
At this point I tried to ring Carla two or three times. I never managed to reach her. Mobile phones had just been invented and I asked the keeper of the gate, or whatever they called the Jeeves character who always answered the rooms’ phone at Cambridge, whether Carla had one and, if she did, what the number might be. Yet again he hung up on me. For all I know he might not even have heard of a mobile phone. And to tell you the truth, I couldn’t see Carla owning such an unwieldy object, the size, weight and even shape of a small shoulder of lamb, in those days.
I sent Carla a telegram, telling her to ring me; write to me; anything. It had been too long, and there was so much I had to tell her; surely there must be an equal amount she had to tell me.
And at last, a response!
FEBRUARY 1974
4/2/1974
Sweetest Heart,
No apologies this time. Either we are both at fault, or neither of us is. I should have written or you should have. Does it really matter? As long as we keep the lines of communication open.
What can I tell you? I am so close to completing my conversion. I am coming in under the wire, really early. The rabbis tell me they have rarely seen such energy, such alacrity in a Jew-to- be. So they reward me by saying I may go to the mikveh in only 7 days from now (by the time you read this I’ll definitely have done the deed). After which I will receive my certificate.
I know I told you you were not my mother, but I am confiding in you now as though you were. I realise that you would understand so much about what’s going on with me, far more than my real mother ever could.
This letter must never fall into the hands of the Conversion Court! Part of me feels ashamed at the way Ariel and I have duped them and part of me says, damn you. I’ve worked hard enough to reach this point. Rabbis, you may not peer into my bedroom as part of your evaluation of my worthiness to be a Jew. I have done everything else you’ve demanded. And after submerging in the mikveh I shall be one of you.
Carla
Telegram from C:
As Shakespeare Wrote: ‘I am a Jew’.
Telegram from me:
MAZEL TOV!
MARCH 1974
Their wedding was an extravagan
za, nonpareil; money on both sides, compliant offspring on both sides. It was held in the Tel Aviv Hilton, supposedly because Israel is neutral ground between Milan (her side) and London, (his). By that reasoning, Vatican City could also have been neutral ground, but I held my tongue.
My flight, delayed in Thailand, was able to deposit me at Lod airport only a short while before I was due at the synagogue. But I thought I could make it. I swept through traffic in my little hire car, arriving at the hotel with just enough time to shower, dress, apply a brush of mascara and a light swipe of lipstick.
Yet still I was late.
I was never late, at least not since the bells of Lac d’Or—study bells, lesson bells, breakfast, lunch and dinner bells—had been programmed into my brain.
Ready to leave, I was unable to find my keys; I was breathless with searching until they reappeared, for some reason, under the bathmat. So I wasn’t able to hold Carla before the formalities began. After our protracted separation, I had to make do with seeing her for the first time under the chuppah.
Her hair was longer, pale gold curls touching her shoulders. The contacts she wore instead of glasses made her brown, bronze-flecked eyes deeper, somehow, mysterious. She had never carried any extra weight but now she was thinner still. There was something frail, almost translucent about her. I didn’t like it but, before I could even absorb the inventory of changes, she sensed me looking. From under the canopy her smile flickered in my direction; then she turned back to the rabbi and Ariel.
After the ceremony it was difficult to penetrate the crowds swirling around the bride and groom, flattering, kissing, congratulating. When, finally, she saw me through the throng she pushed past them all and rushed towards me, arms spread so she could wrap herself around me as soon as we touched. Her ivory gown rustled, the myriad pearls on her bodice pressing into the fabric of my own dress, right through to my skin. Her sheer sleeves flowed freely until they were constrained by long, tightly tailored cuffs adorned with gleaming columns of tiny coral buttons.
She held me at a little distance from herself. ‘It’s been ages, Katie. Too long.’ She sighed. ‘I thought you weren’t coming. I thought you’d forgotten how to love me.’