The Devil in Jerusalem

by Naomi Ragen

  “Answer?”

  “Should you think of yourself as wicked or shouldn’t you?”

  “I…” He turned the pages, studying. “They don’t really say.”

  “But what do you think?” She smiled.

  “I think,” he pressed his lips together in concentration, “that no one should ever think of himself as wicked. You should be sorry for the wicked deeds you do, but realize that it didn’t come from a wicked heart, but from mistaken ideas or a momentary weakness. If you take your mistakes too hard, then you really might become wicked. You’ll think it’s in your blood and you have no choice.”

  She leaned back, exhaling. “That’s what I think, too.”

  “Should we keep going?”

  Why not, she thought, nodding.

  “‘The completely righteous man prospers materially and spiritually. He knows only good,’” he read.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Plenty of righteous people suffer.”

  “Because they still have some evil inside them that hasn’t yet been purified.”

  “Or because they have bad luck, or no money for a good lawyer. Anyhow, does suffering ever really purify?”

  “The text seems to be saying that a truly righteous person doesn’t need to suffer because he has no impurities. So, if you do suffer, it’s God’s way of making you a better person while you are still clothed in your earthly body, so you need not suffer in the Next World. Prospering and suffering are all part of the divine plan. The complete tzaddik, who knows only success, has succeeded in serving and loving God completely.”

  “I never heard of anyone who knows only success, no matter how righteous. Even the Lubavitcher Rebbe, the one his followers are now claiming is the Messiah, never had children. That must have caused him tremendous suffering.”

  There was a thoughtful silence. At last he said, “I guess you could say the same about Abraham. He was also childless for a long time. So … maybe the text isn’t saying that a great tzaddik will have a perfect life, but just that his perfect faith will prevent him from suffering the way a lesser person would.”

  She scanned the text. “Where is that written?”

  “Oh, it isn’t. It’s my own interpretation.”

  She looked up, impressed. “That makes sense to me.”

  “I’ve also heard another interpretation, not my own, which says the word masbiyim means ‘sated’ rather than ‘swear’. In other words, before you are born, your soul will be sated with everything you’ll need to fulfill your destiny on earth.”

  “I like that better than the pre-fetal soul swearing.” She grinned.

  “So do I,” he admitted.

  “It’s getting late,” she murmured, looking at her watch, but not really wanting to go back to the loneliness of her dorm room, the stacks of books and study notes that lay in untouched mounds on her desk, like an abandoned archaeological site that has turned up nothing of value. She hoped he’d try to talk her into staying longer.

  He didn’t, instead getting up and walking her back to her dorm room, his hands in his pockets. The first snows had come early; the streets were already icy.

  “I hate this cold,” he said, zipping up his coat. “In Israel, it never really gets cold at all. Most of the houses don’t even have central heating.”

  “In Jerusalem and the Galilee, especially Safed, it snows,” she told him. “I was there once. It can get freezing cold, especially since the houses are made of stone. But unlike here, everyone is so happy when it snows. First, because it happens only once in a blue moon, and second, because before it can get dirty and become a nuisance, the special Israeli snow-removal equipment is put to work.”

  He looked at her blankly. “What’s that?”

  “The sun.” She grinned.

  He laughed.

  She looked at him seriously. “Do you think you’d be happy there? Away from your family, friends, American hamburgers?”

  “I don’t want to be like the spies Moses sent out to scout the land, who came back and complained, ‘We can’t possibly live in Israel! There are no Entenmann’s brownies!’”

  “Oh, is that what they said to Moses?” She laughed. Suddenly, she felt her feet losing their grip on hidden ice. She began to slide precariously forward. He reached out to steady her, his hand around her waist. It felt so right there, she thought, looking up at him. He was just the right height, just slightly taller than herself, with those amazing blue eyes.

  He crooked his arm. “You’d better hold on.”

  She slid her arm through his. “Is this even allowed?” she joked.

  “There is no skin-to-skin contact, and besides, all prohibitions are canceled when it comes to saving a life,” he told her with the utmost seriousness.

  Was he being cleverly deadpan? she wondered, looking into his face for a hint of humor. There wasn’t any.

  He went on, oblivious. “How many stories do you hear about people falling down during some stupid ski vacation—nothing major, just a little bump on the head—and wham, internal bleeding, rush to the hospital, the families all weeping and wailing.…”

  She dropped his arm. “That’s not funny.”

  He stared at her. “It wasn’t meant to be! A little caution could prevent so much needless suffering.”

  She suddenly felt foolish. “Right, I’m sorry. It’s just that … this summer, I was a medical volunteer in the ICU. The families … I saw and heard so much.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He sighed. “I suppose you’ll just have to get used to it.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible. I can’t imagine being in those situations every single day, being the one to break the horrible news to someone’s mother or boyfriend.…”

  “Well, you know, you don’t have to.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that your soul has been gifted with every ability you’ll need to do anything you decide to do during your time on earth. No one is restricted to just one path.”

  “My mother would disagree with you. She believes firmly in choosing a career path and sticking with it.”

  “Your mother is your role model? You want her life?”

  The question left her dumbfounded. She’d never thought of it in those terms. They walked on in silence under the dark night sky until she reached her dorm. “Well, good night, and thanks for the Tanya lesson. And for keeping me from falling and breaking my head.”

  “I’ll take thanks for the latter but not the former. I probably scared you off for life. I really don’t know enough Tanya to be teaching.”

  “I don’t scare easily. Besides, honestly? Your own insights were the things I found most interesting.”

  He brightened. “I’d be happy to give you another lesson.”

  “I’ll think about it.” She smiled, turning to go. Then suddenly, she turned back. “Hey,” she called out.

  He turned, looking at her.

  “Okay. Let’s do it again sometime.”

  “What about tomorrow?” he asked her.

  From the notebooks of Menachem Shem Tov …

  Question: Greetings to the heavens.

  Answer: Greetings.

  Question: Should I marry Daniella?

  Answer: There is truth in this.

  Question: In the next three weeks, will her husband, Shlomo, die?

  Answer: Indeed, there is truth in this.

  Question: Will Daniella agree to marry me?

  Answer: There is truth in this (yes).

  4

  Daniella zipped open the long white bag holding her wedding dress. Using both hands, she delicately lifted the beaded silk free of the plastic. It was so lovely, so shiny! Like the future she held in her mind.

  The wedding would take place only a week after her nineteenth birthday. Her parents had not been easy to convince, especially since it coincided with her dropping out of college.

  “So you failed one course! Take it again!” her mother railed.

&nb
sp; “I failed organic chemistry. I will never get into any decent medical school.”

  “There must be something you can do! Don’t just give up and get married!”

  “You don’t understand, Mother. I don’t want to be a doctor.”

  There was a shocked silence as her mother absorbed this new information. To her credit, her response was measured. “So, don’t be a doctor,” she said reasonably. “Take a different major. But why get married so young? Get your BA, at least. Without it, what will become of you?”

  Her father was also less than enthusiastic. “Where’s the fire? What’s the big rush? You don’t want to go to college? So get a job. Work in the store. Live with your mother for a while.”

  “Right, I’d be so much better off with Mom and her boyfriend,” she’d answered, which made him look down then turn away. End of discussion.

  Her mother was more difficult to put off. “The fact that I made a mistake doesn’t mean you have to,” she nagged.

  “Why can’t you just accept I’m not going to be a rich, Jewish doctor or marry one?”

  “As far as I can see, your Shlomie has no education at all!”

  “He’s a Talmud scholar. He wants to continue learning!”

  “Yes.” Her mother nodded in mock respect. “Very noble. He trusts that God will support him. Unfortunately, he thinks I’m God.”

  “No! You’re wrong! We don’t care about money! We’re not like you and Dad! We want to live in Israel, work the land, study, plant roots, give you grandchildren who are devout—”

  “Have you thought about birth control?” she interrupted.

  Daniella found the question almost brutal in its intrusiveness, especially since it had been the first major bone of contention between her and Shlomie.

  “It is forbidden! A person must never prevent God from blessing them with children,” he’d said almost harshly. “We must accept every soul God sends us with joy, whenever it happens.”

  Her response had been equally vehement: “Yeah, right, Shlomie. Sure. Easy for you to say, since I’ll be the one who’s pregnant and suffering through labor, and taking care of them!”

  He’d taken her hand and kissed it. “Daniella, my beloved. We will do this together. You will never be alone. I will love every one of our children and care for them, the way I will love and care for you, my dearest, sweet friend.”

  “We’ve discussed it,” she told her mother. To her shock, she found herself parroting the very words that Shlomie had used, and against which she had objected so fiercely. Anything was better than siding with her mother on any issue. “You know religious people don’t believe in birth control. They believe that God will only send them children when they are ready, and that each child is a blessing. Don’t you find your children a blessing, Mom?”

  That finally shut her up. “Well, I suppose nothing I say will influence you, so I guess this discussion is at an end.”

  She watched her mother flounce out of the room, clearly relieved to be leaving Daniella and her brooding, judgmental stares behind. For comfort, Daniella went to see her granny.

  The family’s elegant, gray-haired matriarch was a cheerful, half-cup-full kind of person in whose eyes Daniella knew she could do no wrong. Heiress to a flourishing family-run business, Elizabeth Auerbach lived in a stunning mansion in the most expensive area in the city. All her life she had been coddled and pampered by a doting husband and handsome, clever children. The blessings of her charmed life had made her warm and loving and generous, and there was no one in the world she loved more than her only granddaughter, Daniella. Ever since Daniella was a baby, there had been this special bond between them. Perhaps because the girl was the opposite of her mother, Claire, whose own reaction to her good fortune was to guard it jealously, becoming shrewd, demanding, and greedy.

  “Don’t let your parents discourage you, Daniella. Not all marriages turn out badly.”

  “I won’t, Granny,” she said, hugging her, buoyed by her warmth and optimism.

  “Daniella, my baby. A bride! I can’t believe it. And she’s going to make me a great-grandmother, of sabras, no less, dear little brown babies born in Israel! Are they going to wear those side curls and the long dresses? Are you going to wear a wig?”

  “I don’t know, Granny. Maybe.”

  “Just don’t get too fanatic. Promise me?”

  “Never!”

  The truth was, she wasn’t sure of anything. All she had was the broad outlines of a life imagined in uncomplicated, youthful passion, a life of total, uncompromising commitment to ideals. Some of her ideals were religious—a love for spiritual purity, for sanctity, for truth and goodness—and some were half-formed visions drawn from books, movies, Zionist youth groups, and summer camp. But it was all so abstract. She had no idea what that kind of life would actually look like, or where it would take her, when put into practice.

  Only one thing filled her with absolute certainty: she wanted to be a mother. Her youthful passion to help others, to save lives, she now poured into her desire physically to create and nurture life. That was now her highest ideal, the purest way she could imagine to fulfill both her destiny as well as her womanliness: to be the person whom God had intended her to be. Her entire education at the hands of kind, learned rabbis and rebbetzins had reinforced that longing, and her relationship with Shlomie cemented it as the cornerstone of their lives together. Motherhood was the ideal of Jewish womanhood, Shlomie often said. After having failed at her studies, she allowed herself to agree.

  Although in her younger years she had felt just the opposite, now when she looked at photos of haredi women and their numerous children—all beautifully dressed for the Sabbath and the holidays, the mother herself in her finely coiffed wig wearing designer dresses, calm and smiling—she saw the face of God.

  She would be nothing like her own mother, she convinced herself. Her kids would have fun. There would always be time to read stories, and comb dolls’ hair, and play catch. She didn’t want to be admired for her medical degree, beautiful house, jewels, clothes, accomplished husband, she told herself. She wanted to be called a great mom.

  That’s why it didn’t matter about college and birth control, she told herself. She would have no profession other than mothering, no outside interests that would interfere with taking care of her children, every one a precious, multifaceted gem that she would fashion and polish, bringing out their full potential for godliness.

  She fingered the material of her wedding gown. It was fancier than she’d wanted. She would have been happy getting married the way they did on a kibbutz: in a white cotton dress with a garland of fresh flowers around her head, followed by a ride on a hay wagon and a picnic. Instead, it was going to be black tie in some ostentatious hotel with obscenely expensive kosher catering. Her mother and even her understanding granny had insisted. And everyone would have to be dressed just so. Her mother was even calling up distant cousins to interrogate them on what they were planning to wear!

  Her grandmother had connections with a bead salesman who got Daniella into one of the few bridal gown factories still on American soil (although the seamstresses were illegal aliens paid wages little higher than those of their overseas counterparts). They’d custom-fitted her dress, lining the sheer sleeves completely so that no flesh at all peeked through.

  While she’d wanted to do her own hair and makeup, she’d compromised, allowing her mother to engage a religious woman who would come to the house on the day of the wedding. She had nothing against makeup per se; she just didn’t want to look like Jezebel when she walked down the aisle, like so many other, usually sensible girls who mistakenly relinquished their faces to the ministrations of “experts” on their crucial day. And even though no one ever said anything bad about a bride on her wedding day, it was obvious to her that this was the case.

  She’d already had a consultation the week before. A little lipstick and mascara, that was it, she’d insisted. “Shlomie, my fiancé, doesn’t like thick ma
keup and, after all, it’s for him I want to look nice, right?” she’d explained to the affable, bewigged young woman, who nodded approvingly. “My hair—can you just put it up with tendrils floating gently down on either side of my cheeks? With all that dancing, it’s bound to come undone anyway, so I might as well start out that way!”

  The only extravagance she’d permitted herself was the loan of her grandmother’s diamond coming-out tiara, to which she planned to attach her veil. Ever since she’d been a little girl, she’d admired the photos of her granny in her white debutante dress at the Cinderella Ball. She’d been one of the only Jewish girls in Pittsburgh to be invited, thanks to Daniella’s great-grandfather’s wealth and well-known philanthropic works. No one could say no to his face, no matter what they surely must have said behind his back in those anti-Semitic days.

  Daniella’s mother, Claire, had also participated in the ball, even though by that time the family had become more religiously observant. She simply wore a dress with less cleavage, danced with her brother, and avoided the non-kosher champagne.

  The Cinderella Ball was still going strong. Daniella, too, had been invited but refused. What would have been the point? Was there ever anyone less eligible to be presented to Pittsburgh society in hopes of finding a suitable husband than herself? She had found the only man she could envision being married to: a kind, gentle, scholarly, devoutly pious boy who shared her dreams and ideals and who had never owned a pair of black, lace-up dress shoes, much less learned how to waltz.

  They were very much in love, very much in sync, she told herself. She understood that her family couldn’t begin to fathom this, but that was not her problem. She was going to live a better life than the one they’d chosen, a life in which every act and emotion was genuine and pure, unpolluted by hypocritical social demands or money and materialism. No one in the yeshiva world had lots of money, but they all managed somehow. With God’s help, she and Shlomie would, too.

  Across town, at the very same time, Shlomie Goodman was trying on a brand-new black suit. As was usual with religious Jews, he had not seen or spoken to Daniella for more than a week. Their next meeting would be in front of hundreds of people as he walked toward her, accompanied by his parents, and a twenty-piece orchestra, smiling into her face just before veiling it, as had been the custom ever since Jacob got stuck with Leah.