by Nora Gold
Morosely she rubs her leg. She is different now than when she started her M.S.W. That rally broke not only her leg, but something else in her, too. She is tougher now. Maybe even hard. And all sorts of things she used to care about don’t matter much anymore. Gazing at the sunlight, she ruminates, as she does several times every day, about that rally. She remembers how they kicked her. She will never forget the physical pain, the terror she felt, or her despair in the weeks and months that followed — despair so deep it sometimes seemed there was no point in living. Nothing could ever compensate her for what she has been through. Not even a million dollars.
But still she is suing Dunhill. She is suing them for every penny she can get. At her lawyer’s request, she has been documenting everything that happened to her, including the visit of the rector of the university on her third day in hospital. He stood at the end of her bed and said that what had occurred at that rally was very unfortunate. He stared at her swollen, gashed, disfigured face, her head and neck that could not be moved, her torso in its cast from neck to hip, and her right leg in a second cast, and added, “Very, very unfortunate.” However, he said, according to the university’s legal counsel, this event could not be attributed in any way to the negligence of the university, which had not been, in terms of even the strictest definition, derelict in its duty. Furthermore, he explicated, the university’s lawyer, in consultation with the university’s equity officer, had also ruled that this incident could not be classified as a hate crime. What had occurred, unfortunate though it was, was ultimately just an interpersonal conflict. Academic freedom, differences of viewpoint, must be allowed to flower on campus. Therefore the university would not be laying charges against anyone involved. Not Michael Brier, his staff, or the Dunhill Students’ Union or the Social Work Anti-oppression Committee, the co-organizers of the rally. According to the university, no one was responsible. It was an unfortunate incident — “very, very unfortunate.” But no one was to blame.
She nearly spat at him from her hospital bed. But a week later the university did make a minor gesture. Phoebe called to say that Dunhill would give her as long as she needed to finish her degree, and would charge no additional tuition fees until then. All she had to do to graduate was submit her written assignments; they were waiving the usual requirement for class attendance. This last point pleased Judith to no end. Great! she thought. I won’t have to set foot on that campus, or see any of those horrible people, ever again! Phoebe also said that Judith could, instead of a thesis, just hand in one extra paper, something slightly longer than the typical twenty pages. (Which Judith subsequently did for Hetty, a paper titled “Defining the Difference Between Free Speech and Hate Speech On Campus.”) All these special conditions, Phoebe explained, were just an informal arrangement between the rector and Judith, with the school’s participation. Nothing would be put in writing. Of course not, Judith thinks now. Nothing was ever written down so that this arrangement could not be construed as an admission of guilt, or even responsibility, on the university’s part. Assholes. Especially that rector. Rector, rectum — perhaps the two words are related? Of course they are. At least when a rector, like this guy, is a rectum.
She goes to the kitchen and collects the ingredients for making charoset: a half-dozen apples, two bags of walnuts, a bottle of sweet red wine, and cinnamon. She finds the cutting board, paring knife, grater, hammer, spoon, and mixing bowl, and places everything on the dining room table. Meanwhile she is thinking, A person, if they let themselves, could get as bitter as horseradish. Here I am with a ruined leg that hurts twenty times a day, and almost every night I have nightmares, but the people who did this to me, they get off scot-free. They’re doing just fine. For them this was an almost insignificant incident. It probably never even crosses their minds.
She sits at the table, places an unopened bag of walnuts on the cutting board, lifts the hammer, and starts smashing the walnuts inside the bag. The hammer in her hand reminds her of a Pete Seeger song, and she sings,“It’s the hammer of justice …” And she thinks about bells of freedom, and love between brothers and sisters, as she sings and pounds away.
When she’s done, she examines the bag of nuts. No big chunks are left, just a few little bumps of walnut, and the rest has been ground into powder. Walnut powder. Walnut dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. She tears open the cellophane bag, empties its powdery contents into the plastic bowl, and peels the apples. Then she begins grating them, musing about charoset. It’s supposed to symbolize the mortar for the bricks we made when we were slaves in Egypt — it’s a symbol of our suffering and affliction — yet it tastes delicious. Is pain supposed to be tasty?
No. But justice is. Yesterday Cindy told her that Weick was arrested last weekend for drunk driving. He nearly killed a ten-year-old girl and then drove off. It’s all over the Dunhill papers: Director of Social Work School Arrested in Hit-and-Run. Judith grates an apple. Weick’s dissoluteness and cowardice are now in view for all to see. Maybe, after all, there is some justice. And its taste at this moment is sweet. Like the sweet juice dripping now from the apples.
She pours the grated apples, already starting to turn brown, into the bowl with the smashed walnuts, and stirs. The proportions aren’t quite right. It needs more apple. So she peels and grates one more apple, a perfect shiny red one that reminds her of the very first apple, the one stolen from the Tree of Knowledge. What is knowledge? she recalls, was the theme question of her time at Dunhill. Now she answers: True knowledge, or wisdom, is the understanding that there is evil in the world — but also goodness. Goodness like Cindy. Goodness also like some of the other students in her class — Genya, Samantha, Darra, and Mary Martha — who sent her a get-well card when she was in hospital, with a picture of a wicker basket full of wistful-looking kittens. The card on the inside said all the usual things, but also that they had put together a binder of readings about Israel, Judaism, antisemitism, and anti-Israelism, and it was already on the Anti-oppression shelf in the Social Work Library, with a note on the cover saying it was in honour of Judith Gallanter. She was still in enormous physical pain then, and too cynical to believe that anyone at Dunhill would ever open that binder. But still she was very touched by this gesture. As she is again now.
She stirs the mixture and, satisfied this time with its consistency, adds a slosh of the sweet red wine and a shake of the cinnamon. The smell of the mixture is spicy but also sweet and pungent, and it makes her mouth water. It’s the smell of life itself. When she was a little girl making charoset with Bubba — or as Bubba pronounced it in Yiddish, charoises — they chopped the walnuts with a hand chopper, a semi-circular blade with a wooden handle that Bubba also used for chopping liver. Making charoises, she and Bubba sang Pesach songs in Yiddish, along with the songs from the Haggada, which are in Hebrew and Aramaic, refreshing their memories so that they would know them for the Seder that night. Bubba had a sweet, lyrical voice, and together they sang “It Would Suffice,” “One Kid,” “Mighty Is God,” “It Is Proper to Praise Him,” and “Who Knows One?” Also, of course, they practised the Four Questions, which — although she wasn’t the youngest child at the Seder — she had to recite until her cousin Paul learned how to say them.
“Why are there only four questions?” she once asked Bubba. “I have more than four.”
“That’s good,” said Bubba. “It’s good to have questions.”
Now humming “Who Knows One?” Judith gives a final stir to the charoset, and puts a spoonful of it into her mouth. It is delicious. Perfect. Perfecto, as Daddy always said. She transfers the charoset from the mixing bowl into a pretty, round aqua dish, and, using the second bag of walnuts, decorates the charoset with a circle of nuts all around the perimeter, plus one perfect nut in the middle. She covers the whole thing with plastic wrap and puts it in the fridge. Mortar, she thinks, for remembering.
— 2 —
Judith returns to the couch and puts her leg up on the footstool. It’s aching again. But despite
this, she feels cheerful: she is pleased with her charoset. She watches Issy awhile and then starts singing to him in Hebrew. Softly, so as not to wake him. She sings “Who Knows One?” and realizes this is a numbers song. A song built on numbers. Ever since that terrible Friday night twenty-six months ago, the one before the rally, she has felt toward numbers a special affection. She sings
to Issy:
“Who knows One?
I know One.
One is our God.
Our God, our God, our God, our God,
Who is in heaven
And the earth.”
She smiles at the sleeping baby. Who knows One? she asks herself. If I were counting my blessings, you would be Blessing Number One.
Number one
Is my son.
Now she softly sings the second verse of the song:
“Who knows Two?
I know Two.
Two is the tablets
Of the Ten Commandments.”
Two, though, is also a man and a woman. And Blessing Number Two in her life is Bobby. Which feels almost as miraculous as having had a baby. It astounds her that she and Bobby have ended up together. Even in those first weeks after the rally when she couldn’t move a bone in her body without pain, and he was incredibly solicitous and kind to her — even then she was sure they wouldn’t end up together. She was grateful for his love, caring, and constancy, but she also felt guilty, like she was just using him. She knew there was no way she was staying here in Toronto and settling down with him. As soon as she was back on her feet — standing on her own two feet, both literally and figuratively — she would be on the first plane back to Israel. And she would be on that plane alone, without Bobby in the seat next to her.
But then she got pregnant. And discovered to her astonishment how much she wanted this baby. Then, shortly after, how much she wanted Bobby, too. To be the three of them together. A family. So they got married in a small ceremony in his living room, with just his brother and sister and their spouses, Cindy and Tom, and the rabbi. But before agreeing to marry him, she insisted they come to an understanding about Israel. This was her only condition for marriage: that within five years at the most — and hopefully sooner — they would move to Israel to live. Bobby, half-joking that anything — even Israel! — was better than losing her, agreed. Though he added almost parenthetically that living in Israel would be very difficult financially, much harder than in Canada, so they had to make some money before they went. With a little luck, he said, they could save enough in four to five years. Judith, who had been poor both in Canada and Israel — so poor in Israel that, in exchange for groceries she couldn’t pay for, she sometimes put up with being groped by the grocer — told Bobby he was probably right. They should go with a nest egg. But they never defined exactly how much would be enough. They never nailed down a magic number. He said they needed to go with at least half a million dollars, and a million would be even better. She thought that sounded like a lot. But by this time Bobby had left BBB and moved to another firm, BRJ, where he felt very optimistic about his prospects, and was so confident about his future earning capacity that she deferred to his judgment. Even though she would have been willing to go to Israel with much less than half a million dollars. She would have been willing to go with nothing.
But none of that matters now. The main thing is, they have an agreement in principle that they’re moving to Israel. Everything else is mere detail. As it says in the Talmud, “The rest is commentary.”
She stands and stretches, looking out the window, feeling satisfied with life. She may be temporarily in galut, but still she is a lucky woman. She has a husband, a child, and even (“Who knows Three?”) a dear woman friend. A true friend — after all, who could be truer than someone who has saved your life? With shame she recalls how, during her first months at Dunhill, she sometimes took Cindy for granted, or undervalued her, because she wasn’t as intellectual as the rest of their group. Also because she seemed so sunny, uncomplicated, and innocent. Yet she’s the one who saved me, thinks Judith. Maybe with the power of her innocence. Like Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird, when she stopped a mob from lynching a black man. I love Cindy. And always will.
She bends down and touches Issy’s cheek. “Mama loves you,” she whispers, and goes to check on the chicken soup. It is gently bubbling and has come out well. It smells rich and fragrant and has a few of those floating fat globules on the top, broken up by protruding celery, carrot, and chicken bone. She stirs it and, careful not to burn her mouth, slurps a little off the spoon. It is, as Annette would say, “marvellous.” Judith turns off the flame and moves the soup to the back burner to cool. She’ll bring this tonight as their contribution to the Seder meal. They are going to Richard and Annette’s. Over the past year she has made her peace with them. In a limited way, of course, which is all that’s possible with people like that. But last year she and Bobby went there for the Seder, and this year it was just assumed they’d return. Which was fine with her. Annette, who always plans far ahead, called her five weeks ago, asking if this year she would again make her marvellous chicken soup. She agreed, and offered to also make the charoset and roast the shank bone and egg, an offer gratefully accepted. She also bought flowers for Richard and Annette. The red tulips and yellow daffodils mixed together look bright and cheerful on the kitchen counter, and nearby, in shiny purple-and-silver gift wrapping, are presents for the children in exchange for the afikoman. Surveying all these preparations for tonight reminds her that she promised Annette she would bring some Haggadas, too. Last year they didn’t have enough and people had to share.
She crouches gingerly — her back is still fragile: such movements need to be undertaken gradually — and from the bottom cupboard pulls out a pile of Haggadas. She carries them into the living room and sets them next to her on the black leather couch. This couch that used to be just Bobby’s, but now — she feels with proprietary pleasure — also belongs to her. She sifts through the Haggadas, creating a separate pile for all those of artistic value or with interesting commentaries. To this pile she adds the Szyk Haggada Bobby got for his bar mitzvah, and which he wants to use tonight. For herself she selects the first feminist Haggada ever published, Aviva Cantor’s.
She senses Issy stirring in his seat. She strokes his cheek, murmurs, “Yes, yes, okay,” and he falls back asleep. She returns to browsing through the Haggadas, putting into the good pile the ones by Lehmann, Zion/Dishon, and Moss. Then she discovers a stack of little two-dollar Haggadas, obviously much-used, stained by wine and food. There are ten, all identical. These are good, she thinks. This way Richard can call out a page number and we’ll all be on the same page. She opens one and smiles at the lively, cartoon-like illustrations in purple and lime-green. Issy will like this. So will the other kids. She adds these ten Haggadas to the pile.
Feeling tired, she glances at her watch. Almost five o’clock. Just three hours until the sun sets and Pesach begins. Annette wants them there for 7:30, so she and Bobby agreed they’d leave the house at 7:15. Bobby is still at the office. There was an emergency to deal with today; he doesn’t usually work on Saturdays. But he promised he’d be home no later than seven o’clock. That’s not for another two hours — she’s still got lots of time till she has to shower and dress. She is looking forward to dressing up. It’s an Israeli custom to wear new clothes on Pesach, and she has bought a new outfit for tonight. Something pretty: white with small red flowers. And shiny red shoes to match. She laughs. For no special reason. Just out of sheer joy. Because life is good. She glances down at her sleeping baby and is flooded with love. Leaning her head back, she closes her eyes and feels on her face the warmth of the late afternoon sun beaming in through the window. She hears the peaceful silence of the house. There is no sound at all except the quiet ticking of a clock. Half-smiling, she dozes off.
— 3 —
She jolts awake, feeling panicky. She has had another bad dream, and the room around her is cold and full of shad
ows. She glances at the baby — he’s fine, still sleeping — and checks her watch: 6:15. She’ll have to start getting ready soon. Her leg hurts again, which is depressing — Am I going to spend my whole life in pain? — and this dream she just woke from was scary and disturbing. It wasn’t her usual nightmare: boots kicking her, crowds jeering, Cossacks on horses. In this one, there’s something she can’t put her finger on that is wrong. Very wrong. She tries retrieving this dream, but can’t — it feels like it’s lost to her forever. Now, though, she remembers something else. It’s as if this dream shook loose from its moorings, like poorly nailed-down flooring, an incident she has suppressed since it happened. It was a small but troubling event. Three days ago, Richard and Annette phoned with some last-minute details about tonight’s Seder. Then they mentioned — laughing at themselves for planning so far in advance — that on that exact date four years from now, their son, Ryan, would be celebrating his bar mitzvah. After hanging up, Bobby said that, knowing how compulsive a planner Annette is, she’ll probably ask them tomorrow if, during the bar mitzvah weekend, they can put up her parents and sister from Calgary. He assumed, he said jokingly, that this would be okay with Judith — that she didn’t have any plans yet for that weekend four years away.