Fields of Exile

by Nora Gold

  “In other words, play this like a Jew in galut. Cringe and cower. Suck up and keep my mouth shut. At least in Israel, Jews stand up and fight back.”

  “Here we go again. Three cheers for Israel, the most perfect place in the world. No problems, no imperfections, everyone’s happy, brave, and heroic all the time.”

  “I never said that.”

  “What did you once tell me Israel was supposed to be? A safe haven for all the Jews? Sure. A lovely, safe place to live. As long as you don’t get blown up walking down the street.”

  “At least we’re running our own country. We’re in our own home.”

  “Maîtres chez nous.”

  “Something like that. We’re not just guests in someone else’s house.”

  “I don’t feel like a guest here,” he says. “Canada is my home.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “It is,” he insists.

  “I know it is. But that’s the problem.”

  “It’s not a problem for me.”

  “It’s a problem for me. And a problem for us.”

  He doesn’t say anything. Just gazes at her intensely.

  “What?”

  “I can’t live there, Judith.”

  “I know that.”

  “No, you don’t. You think at some level you’ll be able to persuade me to go back there with you. But that’s not going to happen. I can’t do it. My life is here.”

  She looks down at her empty plate. She’s eaten everything on it without even noticing.

  “I know that compared to you,” he says, “I seem very straight and conservative. A typical lawyer, with no ideals, no commitment —”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But that’s what you think, at least sometimes. You think I don’t have the guts to make it in Israel. But it’s not that. I just don’t want to. This is my home.”

  “You’d like it in Israel if you tried. I know you would. Why won’t you even give it a chance?”

  “You don’t understand, Judith.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No, you don’t. You’re not even trying to see my point of view.”

  “What do you want me to say, Bobby? I’m not going to stay in Canada and spend the rest of my life in this sterile, middle-class, galut existence. It’s fine for you, joining a committee at the Toronto Jewish Community Board, going to shul occasionally, and otherwise living like any other Canadian. But it’s not enough for me. I’m not Moses Mendelssohn, willing to live ‘as a Jew at home and a man (or woman) in the street’. I want to live as a Jew all of the time. I want to live a fully Jewish existence, and I can’t do that here in galut. I can do that only in Israel.”

  They glare at each other in silence. Then he glances at his watch. “I have to go. It’s getting late.”

  “I hate this,” she says. “I wish we could start today all over again.” She remembers what her father sometimes did when things in the family went wrong. He’d say, “Let’s start over,” or “Let’s rewind,” and they’d all agree to erase what had just happened; then they’d redo, re-enact, the discussion or activity, this time making it better, making it right. Now she asks Bobby pleadingly, “Can we pretend we just woke up and none of this ever happened?”

  He snickers.

  “I mean it. Not just our argument, but everything from this whole morning so far. All those articles I read before you came down. I want it all to go away.”

  “I know how to do that,” he says. “I can make that go away.”

  “You can?” Her eyes open wide and childlike.

  “Sure.” With a flourish, he sweeps all the newspapers and magazines off the table onto the floor, where instantly they’re out of sight.

  Upstairs, after his shower, Bobby comes naked into the bedroom, and sees Judith, also naked, lying on the bed.

  “You love me,” she says. A statement, not a question.

  “I do.”

  “You’ll always love me.”

  “I will.”

  “You’re sure.”

  He hesitates. “I’m sure. You drive me up the fuckin’ wall sometimes, but yes, I’ll always love you.”

  She opens her arms wide.

  “I don’t have time now,” he says. “I’ll be late for work.”

  She spreads her arms wider and spreads her legs, too.

  Blushing, he says, “I can’t. I can’t. It’s my first day as a junior partner.”

  “Just a hug, then.”

  He climbs onto the bed and onto her, wriggling into her arms for a hug. Her hand creeps down to his ass, and then she is undulating underneath him.

  “Judith, I can’t …”

  But he can. And he does. She makes love to him out of love, and sadness, and fear. She knows this thing between them will never work out, and she knows she’ll have to leave him. But she loves him anyway, and she loves his hardness inside her and she loves his little-boy softness. She makes love to him sadly, crying in the middle. But he doesn’t see.

  — 3 —

  The next eight days pass uneventfully. Judith works hard on her schoolwork on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday till sundown. Shabbat is the same as usual, spent with Bobby, and on Sunday she studies some more. On Monday morning, she drives into school feeling anxious: What if there’s another incident with Kerry or one of her gang? But there isn’t. Everything seems exactly the same as before that occurred. Driving home from Dunhill, she concludes that what happened last week was just an aberration. There’s no reason to believe it will happen again. Relieved and happy, she’s very productive for the next three days.

  On Thursday night, there’s a SWAC meeting at seven o’clock. But beforehand, at 5:30, she’s meeting Suzy for supper, so she leaves home early. The drive starts in the light and ends in the dark. She reaches Dunhill at 5:10 p.m., with twenty spare minutes till she has to meet Suzy. Just enough time to stop by the library and try once more to get a book she urgently needs for Greg’s paper, due in four days. Three times she’s come looking for Black Women in Canada: Sisterhood and Struggle, but someone has always had it out. Now she tries again, and here it is, sitting on the shelf as if waiting for her. She can barely believe her good luck. With relief and joy she signs it out. Now that she has the primary sources, thanks to this book — the first-hand stories, or “narratives,” as she is learning to call them, of twelve Canadian black women — she’s nearly guaranteed an A on her paper. This will almost certainly mean an academic excellence scholarship, which she desperately needs. The little money her father left her is going much faster than she expected. Happily, almost affectionately, she thumbs through the book as she goes to meet Suzy.

  Le Petit Café is empty when she arrives except for a bearded guy sitting alone in a corner, wearing a beret as though acting out some fantasy of being in a petit café in Paris. The two student cafeteria workers wear peaked white paper hats, just like the ones her mother used to origami-fold for her, in miniature, out of the silver paper from packs of cigarettes. Silently the two workers clear off the garbage and leftover food from the tables and give each one a perfunctory wipe with a greasy rag. Through the narrow slits of windows so high up they touch the twenty-foot ceiling, she sees the black winter sky. This cafeteria is in a basement, and here, underground, everything is lit by glass pipes of fluorescent lighting all along the ceiling. Under these lights, and surrounded on all four sides by green walls, the twenty pink-and-aqua round tables give the eerie impression of strange, beautiful underwater plants, some species of waist-high marine mushrooms made of coral and turquoise. She feels as if she’s inside an underwater observatory, like the one she visited in Eilat. Like she is floating in some exotic Red Sea world.

  Suzy arrives. Spotting Judith, she smiles broadly and waves, and as Suzy walks toward her, Judith feels a great physical warmth spread throughout her body. Suzy greets her in a friendly way, bringing her face close as she says hello — almost kissing, but not — and touching her on the arm. They stroll to the food counter, w
here Suzy orders a salad. Judith would prefer something warm and comforting, like pizza, or that nice bubbling onion soup with the thick golden crown of melted cheese on top. But next to Suzy, so neat and petite, she feels big and broad-shouldered, an Amazon, muscular, even masculine. So she, too, orders a salad. They sit at a table in the almost deserted cafeteria, and while eating their crunchy uncomforting salads, Suzy tells her that until last year they served supper at their SWAC meetings. Just a light meal: sandwiches, fruit, cookies, and soft drinks. Still, it was nice. But those days are gone, Suzy says regretfully: there’s no budget anymore for these kinds of perks. They chat about the most recent cutbacks at the university: the reduced hours at the library and the gym. Luckily, says Suzy, the School of Social Work has not yet been affected, but who knows what will happen when the new budget comes down next month? She hopes her contract will be renewed.

  Judith is shocked. “What do you mean ‘renewed’?” she asks. “You’re such a staple of this school. I didn’t know you were just on contract.”

  Suzy laughs. “Everyone assumes I’m tenured. But actually I could be fired at the drop of a hat. I never finished my doctorate because right at the beginning of collecting my data, Natalie was diagnosed with autism. So it’s one-year contracts for me,” she says. “Not that it’s ever been a problem. I’m fine as long as there are no major cuts.”

  “I hope there won’t be any,” Judith says fervently.

  “Thank you. So do I. But this university is in a financial crisis. I don’t imagine our school, out of all the departments and programs, is going to be spared.” With a sigh, she pushes aside her empty salad bowl, says, “Let’s do some work,” and pulls out of her pretty woven book bag the agenda she has typed for tonight’s meeting. They review it together. Tonight is a straightforward continuation of the meeting two weeks ago: they’ll continue planning Anti-oppression Day — hopefully Chris and Janice will have contacted Michael Brier about being the keynote — and then the committee will strike its two subcommittees: Teacher Evaluation and Admissions Outreach. Judith asks Suzy a quick question about the mandate of the Admissions Outreach committee and Suzy answers it. Judith says nothing seems to be missing from the agenda. Good, says Suzy, and now tells her some of the gossip — what Suzy prefers to call “the politics” — of this committee. Apparently, Brenda and James both competed for the same large research grant, and yesterday it was announced that Brenda got it and James didn’t.

  “So there may be some tension tonight between them,” says Suzy.

  Judith, happy to be in the know, flattered even, nods.

  Suzy looks at her watch. “It’s only 6:10! Great. We can relax for a while. I’m going to have a coffee. Can I get you one?”

  “Sure! Thanks!” says Judith, reaching for her wallet, but Suzy waves her away (“My treat”) and goes to the food counter. Judith, alone at the table, feels happy. Suzy likes her. They’re becoming friends, just as she hoped. Suzy returns with two coffees and an enormous raisin cookie. “For us to share, if you like.” Judith thanks her, breaks off a corner, and eats it. Suzy takes a sip of coffee and looks warmly at Judith.

  “Remember how nervous you were the first day of school, and how I told you you’d be fine? Well, you’re more than fine. This year you’re our star pupil.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Last week all the faculty met to allocate the academic excellence scholarships, and your name was on everyone’s list. So you’ll definitely get a scholarship if you want one.”

  “Wow! That’s great!”

  “Yes. But I told them I was also planning to offer you a research assistantship, if my project gets funded.”

  “That would be wonderful. A scholarship and an RA’ship with you.”

  “Well, here’s the thing, Judith: you can’t get both at Dunhill. You’ll have to choose.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know.”

  “A scholarship is worth only half of an RA’ship: $1,500 compared to $3,000. So if money’s a factor, you should definitely go for the RA’ship. But the trouble is I won’t know until January whether I’ve got my grant, and the scholarships have to be decided on by December 1. So it’s up to you. I’d love to have you as my RA. It would be fun. But possibly my project won’t come through.”

  “I see,” says Judith. She tries to think clearly while Suzy steadily gazes at her. She needs money. Just heating her father’s old house is rapidly burning a hole through her inheritance. Plus it would look good on her resumé to have either an RA’ship or a scholarship. Especially an RA’ship. But what if Suzy’s grant doesn’t come through? She weighs this possibility and dismisses it. Suzy will probably get her grant. She has every year for the past three. Anyway, how can she refuse Suzy? It would feel disloyal. As if she didn’t value their special relationship. She says, “My first choice is working with you. So I’ll take my chances.”

  Suzy’s eyes light up gratefully. “I’m so glad. I was hoping you’d say that. I’ll let you know the second I hear anything.”

  “It’s a deal,” says Judith.

  Her father always said that: “It’s a deal.” Even when she was a small child. “I’ll teach you how to ride your bike after supper if you finish your vegetables — it’s a deal.” This phrase was the equivalent of the red wax seal on a legal document. An incontrovertible giving of one’s word. Sometimes her father followed “It’s a deal” with a solemn handshake. But of course she isn’t going to shake Suzy’s hand right now. It would be too formal. Instead she breaks off another piece of the cookie and puts it into her mouth. The mouth, she thinks. The place of vows.

  “One more thing I’d like to ask you,” Suzy says. “The school is currently involved in a re-accreditation process, and each faculty member is supposed to ask two students for their honest evaluation, so we can include the student perspective in our report. So is there anything about the M.S.W. program we should know about? Anything we could improve upon? I truly want to know your opinion.”

  Judith hesitates.

  “We’re not quoting anyone by name,” says Suzy. “So feel free to tell me whatever you like.”

  Judith reflects on what happened ten days ago in Greg’s class. She’s not sure, though, she should tell Suzy about this. What if she doesn’t understand? She looks at her face and sees genuine interest and openness there. But still she isn’t sure. If she tells Suzy, obviously she will be identifiable in the report. No one else at Dunhill has any connection with Israel.

  “Please tell me,” says Suzy. “If something is wrong, I want to know. I want our program to be the best it can be.”

  Judith looks into Suzy’s eyes. Suzy has taught them that when in doubt, check out the person’s nonverbal behaviour, especially their eye contact. “It’s easy to lie with words,” she told them, “but almost impossible to lie with your body.” Right now her pretty brown eyes, looking back at Judith, are warm. Listening. Intelligent. I can trust her, Judith thinks. She’ll understand.

  “A week ago Monday in Greg’s class …” she begins, and tells Suzy the whole story. She also tells her about what she read last week at Bobby’s house, and Bobby’s analysis of the relationship between anti-Israelism and antisemitism. Suzy frowns throughout, looking grave and troubled as Judith speaks. She doesn’t interrupt, though, letting Judith pour everything out until she’s finished.

  Then Suzy says, “I can see how upsetting this was for you, Judith, and of course why it would be. So first of all, I’m concerned about you. But I’m also concerned about the larger issue here. Obviously people are allowed to hold many different opinions at this school — about Israel or anything else. That is part of democracy. It’s freedom of speech, and also academic freedom, and you can’t touch those rights. One wouldn’t even want to. But if there is antisemitism — and I’m not sure about that yet, though I have to say that’s a very interesting, even compelling, analysis you just offered, I’ve never heard any of that before. But if what just happened in Greg’s class was, in fact, antisemi
tism — if it crossed the line that separates free speech from hate speech — then that is something else entirely. That would be completely unacceptable at this school, and we would have to deal with that.”

  “Thank you,” says Judith gratefully.

  “Don’t thank me,” says Suzy. “It’s not a favour to you. It’s for all of us.” She pauses, and then adds with intensity, “Antisemitism is a terrible thing.”

  Judith, watching her closely, thinks, Yes, she does understand. Suzy now tells her that for two years in high school she had a Jewish boyfriend whose parents were Holocaust survivors, so she knows something about all this first-hand. “I even picked up a few Yiddish words,” she says ruefully. “Like antisemitten.” Judith laughs, astounded. Coming from a non-Jew, Suzy’s understanding seems so unexpectedly complete and warm-hearted that Judith has to restrain herself from reaching across the table and clasping her hand.

  “Everyone has the right to feel safe at this school,” says Suzy. “No one here should ever feel attacked or marginalized. All of us, all the faculty, feel very strongly about this.”

  Judith nods. She feels quite emotional now — so much so that she doesn’t trust herself to speak. Suzy won’t let something like this happen again. She will make this school a safe place for her. She’ll protect her.

  “I’m a bit surprised, though, at Greg,” Suzy says, “for not picking up on this. This isn’t like him. But he’s not himself lately. His wife is sick, you know.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “It’s breast cancer, quite advanced, and Greg is taking it very hard. I’m not making excuses for him. But maybe that’s why he missed the boat. That’s unlike him — he’s usually terrific.”

  “I know. That’s why I felt so bad. I couldn’t understand …”

  “You really should go talk to him,” says Suzy. “He’s a good and caring person, and I’m sure he has no idea how you experienced all this. I’ll bet if you shared with him what you’ve just shared with me, he would be very concerned. I don’t know what he’d do about it exactly, but you would definitely be heard and taken very seriously. I don’t have to tell you how well-liked and respected you are at this school.”