by Naomi Ragen
But custom was stronger than law, she knew. If anyone here even suspected the truth, it would start a virtual riot, and she’d be thrown out unceremoniously in front of all these strangers! She felt tears rise to her eyes for what she was about to do and, contrarily, at the thought that something might prevent it.
“Just had a baby?” a young woman sitting next to her asked, pointing to Rivka’s long nails.
Rivka hurriedly clenched her hands into fists, attempting to hide them.
Why, oh why, hadn’t she cut them at home? They were a dead giveaway. There were only two reasonable explanations for such nails: that you were finishing up a long pregnancy and birth, and thus hadn’t been to the mikveh for months, or that it was your first time. Since she’d walked in with her hair covered and a ring on her finger, the latter was no longer possible. I am a very bad liar, she thought, forcing a smile and a nod.
“I had my first baby a few months ago,” the woman chatted on. “So I’m back to no nails. But I don’t care. Who has time for manicures with a newborn crying day and night? Are you new in the neighborhood?”
“I’m … actually visiting … with … that is … we are visiting…”
“Oh, who are your friends? Or is it family?” she probed, continuing the friendly game of Jewish geography that made Rivka want to cut and run. Luckily, her interrogator’s name was called and she soon disappeared inside before Rivka needed to make up an answer.
Soon after, it was her turn. “Room number four,” the mikveh attendant told her, handing her a towel, washcloth, and bar of soap. “Do you need anything else?”
Rivka, who had no idea, shook her head, walking into the room and locking the door behind her. Everything looked clean and pleasant, she saw, relieved. There was a sink and a bathtub with nice pink bath tiles. On the counter were nail clippers, cotton balls, nail-polish remover, and makeup remover. Luckily, there was also a sign listing all the things she needed to do to make herself ready for immersion. It went on forever.
Slowly, she hung up her coat and unbuttoned her sweater, hanging them on a hook. She unbuttoned her blouse and unzipped her skirt. Her slip was new, a pale white silky material with lace over the breasts. She hung it beneath her coat, hiding it along with her new, matching lace bra and panties, horrified by the idea that the matronly attendant should see them. Naked, she felt suddenly vulnerable and frightened. She quickly wrapped a towel around herself, turning on the faucets of the bathtub.
As she waited for it to fill, she lifted her leg up, resting it on the rim of the tub, examining her toes and using the nail clippers to shear off her toenails, carefully gathering the shards and disposing of them, as was the custom. Then she switched legs, repeating her actions. Then she turned to her fingernails, cutting them so close to the nail bed that her skin began to bleed, determined to convince the mikveh attendant of her piety.
Done, she hung up the towel and got into the bath, looking down at herself. She couldn’t recall a time when she had been forced into such intimacy with her own naked body for such a long time. She had never taken baths, an unheard of, selfish indulgence for a member of their large family given that they all shared a single bathroom. No one would have dared waste so much expensively heated hot water on themselves! Bathing—along with everything else they did in that room—was a hurried affair, completed as soon as possible.
Lying back in the warm water, she drew the soapy washcloth over her pink, smooth arms and shoulders, finally reaching down to her plump young breasts, embarrassed at the nipples that stood out so firmly. But why should you be embarrassed at your own body? she asked herself, boldly examining them as if for the first time. They were like two soft, plump fruits, not rounded, but conical with a dark pink circle at the center with its own tiny bud. She lifted them and they filled her hands, pressing against them with luxurious, heavy softness. She ran the cloth over her firm rounded hips and flat stomach, her slim thighs and calves. Following the written instructions, she shampooed the hair of both her head and lower body, blushing as she rinsed both carefully.
Then, she stepped from the bath, reaching for a towel to cover herself. In the corner of her eyes, she caught a glimpse of her naked body in the mirror. As if sleepwalking, she moved closer, standing shamelessly before it.
OH, oh. Could it be possible? All those pieties, and yet, underneath the heavy opaque stockings, the midcalf skirts, the long-sleeved shirts, there was … this! She looked at the voluptuous curves of her breasts and hips and thighs, the blond triangle where her legs met. This, this was what she was. Not a prayer sayer, an obedient, modest girl filled with spirituality … but this. She felt almost angry, as if this truth had been deliberately hidden from her, this amazing revelation, with all its intoxicating power.
She felt suddenly hot, almost dizzy with the vision. Slowly, she took a comb and ran it through her hair to remove any tangles. And when she finished with the hair on her head, she reached down to the blond triangle below.
She had never spent any time at all thinking about it, and had never in her life stood like this examining it. That powerful place where life began, where babies pushed out into the world. And yet, not just a factory. A place too of magic and wonder, a vortex of pleasure. This was where she felt Simon. Not in her head, or even her heart. But down here, in this place, the place she liked to call her belly. But she could see now that it was not. It was a different destination altogether.
Was she ready to go there? To take him?
For one panicked moment she considered fleeing. It was not too late to rush back into her parents’ arms, to put off this decision for months, even years. The terrible idea came to her that, whatever she did at this point, her life might not turn out to be all that wonderful anyway. Was it really worth it, then, to sacrifice her honor, all she still believed in? And was it really her honor, and did she really still believe in all those things she had been brought up to believe?
You have no idea what your life is going to be like, a voice inside her scolded. Stop being a spoiled brat! Did you really think it was going to be so easy? Have courage to follow your dreams, or die trying!
The voice was harsh, intimidating, and convincing, much more so than the pale threats from her parents that her imagination conjured up, annoying reminders of her duty to the Torah and to the family’s good name. Since she was the youngest and her other siblings were all married, she was spared the most convincing threat of all: that her wantonness would destroy her siblings’ chances for good matches, as her aunt Rose had destroyed her mother’s. That threat, she knew, kept most of her friends in line.
Scrubbed, clipped, and painfully combed, she modestly covered herself with a towel and rang the bell for the attendant. Soon someone was knocking on the door, trying to get in. She quickly unlocked it.
“Ready?”
Rivka nodded.
“Your hair! It’s so long! Didn’t your husband make you cut it when you married?”
“My husband likes it long,” she said in a small voice.
The woman shook her head. “No wonder it took you so long to get ready for immersion! And all the stray hairs…” she tsk-tsked, examining Rivka’s bare shoulders and back. “It’s impossible. Come, show me your nails.”
Rivka held out her brutally manicured fingertips and the woman gave her a bright smile of approval, somewhat placated.
“Very good. But next time, don’t damage the skin. You can’t immerse if you’re bleeding.” Then, the woman was silent, waiting. Finally, she said, “The towel, child.”
“What about it?”
The woman gave her a long, searching look. “You act as if this is the first time for you in a mikveh…?”
“No, no, it’s just that where I usually go…”
“So tell me, how does the mikveh attendant check your body where you usually go if you keep it covered with a towel?” Her tone was polite but skeptical.
Rivka felt herself blush from head to toe as she opened the towel and let it drop to t
he bathroom floor. The woman looked her over matter-of-factly, picking off stray hairs with a tissue, all the while peppering her with questions: “Did you remember to clean out your belly button? Did you use Q-tips on your ears? Did you wipe the corners of your eyes? Did you brush your teeth?”
All the while, Rivka stood, exposed and mortified, all the joy of her secret exultation stamped out and destroyed. Stupefied, she nodded wordlessly.
“Fine, fine.” Again, the woman waited, finally handing her the terrycloth bathrobe that had been hanging on a hook, still slightly damp from the last woman who had used it. Rivka cringed.
“Are you sure this is not your first time?” the woman asked again, this time with added sharpness.
Rivka, disgusted, suddenly gave up. “Yes, it’s my very first time here! I have no idea what to do!”
“But you are married, aren’t you?” the attendant demanded sharply. “We don’t let unmarried girls use the mikveh.”
She felt the moment of truth had arrived. She could tell and be honest and one with her soul, accepting her punishment of public humiliation and facing Simon’s disappointment and anger, or she could continue to lie, weaseling out of the unhappiness that was her due in order to reach the illicit joy looming tantalizingly in her imagination.
“Yes, I am married and even have a child,” she said with a shy smile, shocked at how easily the words came to her. “But I am newly religious.”
“A ben niddah,” the woman gasped, shaking her head. “A child born in impurity! But at least now you are trying to do the right thing. And your husband, is he supportive of your efforts to serve God?”
“Not very,” she said sadly.
“Never mind,” the woman comforted, patting her shoulder. “You must be determined, and then the man will follow. It is the woman who builds her house or destroys it, maideleh. Come, follow me.”
The attendant opened the room’s back door, which led down a long, narrow corridor ending in the mikveh itself. It was a small pool of deep, clear water. Under the woman’s watchful eye, Rivka took off her robe and hurried naked down the steps into the water, anxious to hide her body. It was pleasantly warm and came up to her neck.
“How many times do you toivel?”
Rivka, pretending to be secular, couldn’t very well admit she knew the word toivel meant “dunk.” She shrugged helplessly.
“It means to immerse in the water. Girls usually follow the custom of their mothers in the number of times they immerse. Some do it seven times, and some only once.”
While she was sure her family had a custom, it was one she had not yet been privy to. She felt saddened by this knowledge, knowing she was the loose loop that had broken the chain of tradition. “How many times do you think?”
“Twice for good measure.”
“Twice then.” Rivka nodded, wanting to get this over with. She waited, confused.
“Bend your knees, then plunge into the water until it covers your head completely,” the woman instructed her patiently. “The water must cover the top of your head. Don’t clench your eyes or mouth or hands. Keep them gently closed. When you come up, cross your hands over your breasts, and I’ll hang down a towel to cover your hair. Then, say the blessing.”
Rivka closed her eyes, taking the first plunge.
“Not deep enough! Try again!”
Choking back the water she had breathed in, she did as she was told. Drowning, she thought. She felt her chest clench in anger, holding her breath even as she emerged.
“Kosher!” the woman exclaimed, hanging the towel over the side until it touched her head. “Now repeat after me.”
Rivka crossed her arms across her bare breasts: “Blessed art Thou, O King of the universe, on this immersion,” she repeated in Hebrew after the attendant, ashamed to be evoking God’s name in this sorry enterprise. Far from purifying her spirit, she felt soiled and damned, as if she had deliberately dropped a prayer book into the mud.
Since the Holy Temple in Jerusalem had been destroyed, everyone in the world was impure, she knew, profaned by death and sin with no way to purify themselves. Immersing in the ritual bath was one of the few things left to Jews that provided such purification. And she had now sullied that experience for herself forever.
She felt like crying.
She immersed twice more, then walked up the steps. The mikveh attendant held out the robe, averting her eyes in modesty. Rivka slipped it on, feeling like nothing could cover her nakedness. She had been exposed, now and forever.
She hurried back to her room, showering off the mikveh water, feeling she had stolen every drop. Anxious to leave, she quickly pulled her clothes on over her still-damp body, dropping the wet towels into a laundry basket. She paid the attendant her small fee, adding a generous tip. Securing her scarf over her damp hair, she escaped into the night.
Around the corner, Simon stood waiting, a broad smile spreading over his face when he saw her. He reached out to take her hand, but she pulled away.
“What’s wrong now?” he asked, annoyed.
“Nothing. I’m still wet. It’s cold.”
“Well, let’s get you home and warm you up.” He grinned.
His levity made her feel sick to her stomach. She couldn’t bear to even look at him.
The subway platform was outdoors, and the air was freezing cold. She shivered, wondering if she would get pneumonia and die. It didn’t seem too harsh a punishment to her. In fact, if she had been God, that’s exactly what she would have done to a sinner like herself. Midah keneged midah. Measure for measure.
Finally, the train rolled in and they got on.
“I was thinking maybe next weekend we could go up to my parents’ cabin in the Adirondacks, get in a little skiing. Have you ever skied? It’s not difficult to learn. I could take you to a little slope I know that’s perfect for beginners. I’m starting a new course next semester about Hassidism. I expect you to help me with all my homework…” He went on and on, as if trying to deny her steady, morose silence. But all she heard was the rapid beating of her guilty heart and the rumble of the train moving relentlessly forward.
It was hours before they finally got home. She was thoroughly chilled and coughing. Simon seemed oblivious, unbuttoning her coat and tearing off her head covering the moment they walked through the door.
She didn’t resist. He put his hands beneath her sweater, pulling it up over her head urgently as she obediently raised her arms. But when he touched the buttons of her blouse, something about his cold hands at her neck reminded her of the mikveh attendant. A flood of disgust and violation washed over her. She couldn’t breathe.
“Don’t!” she whispered, pulling away.
“C’mon!” He smiled. “Just relax, honey.”
He got the first button undone, then started on the second.
“Don’t!” she screamed, loud enough for the neighbors to hear, wrenching herself away from him.
He dropped his hands, flustered, angry, bewildered.
“Just leave me alone!”
He put his hands into his pockets and backed away, furious. “Okay, Rivka. Whatever you say…” He turned his back.
“Simon. Please…”
Mollified, he turned back, holding out his arms. “Tell me what’s wrong, babe.”
“I…” But the words dammed up in her throat. She grabbed her coat and put it on, then made for the door, slamming it behind her as she rushed down the steps to the street.
Outside, it was very dark and beastly cold. She looked around her, terrified of the strange men who picked up their heads as she walked by. Too late, she realized she had left her purse behind. She didn’t even have money for a subway token or to make a phone call. What difference did it make? Where would I go? she asked herself. Who would I call? Hannah? My mother? How could she explain to either of them her lies, her disappearances, her actions, all the things she had been desiring and pursuing? And what would they say to her? Both would talk her out of going back to Simon, of doing wha
t her whole body and heart longed to do.
I am in hell, she thought, more frightened than she had ever been. She wanted to pray, but didn’t feel worthy. Every choice she had made was wrong. Every independent idea she had formed, mistaken. She had made her choices, and now, when the time had come to pay for them, she was trying to back out. But the universe would not allow it. She must go back. She must bear it. She must allow herself the joy of it.
She turned around. And there he was, walking toward her. She ran into his arms. He held her tightly. “Rivka, Rivka.”
She lifted her chin and looked into his eyes. No one had ever said her name that way. In his voice, she was another person, that Rivka. He had come after her, afraid for her, she told herself. He cared about her. He loved her.
He held out his hand, and she slipped hers inside. It was warm against her icy skin. They walked slowly back to the house, all the while a current of fire flashing through that place she had so recently discovered.
In the elevator, she stood with her back against the wall, her hands held tightly behind her, the fingers squeezing together with punishing fierceness. He stood apart, looking at the floor. And then, suddenly, he looked up, taking one step toward her, reaching out and holding her chin, his thumb making a soft, circular motion on her cheek. She closed her eyes, counting the number of times it moved up and back over her face, feeling the movement intensely. She moaned.
He held her head between his hands, his fingers soft as they met in back of her neck, pulling her mouth to his. He pressed his lips against hers, and she felt her entire body flow toward him, electrified, almost drunk with abandon.
They staggered, kissing, to the door. She waited as he detached himself from her, fumbling for the keys, all the while keeping one hand at the back of her neck with an insistent pressure. Inside at last, he quickly closed and locked the door.
They stood facing each other for a moment, as his hand slid around slowly to her throat, his thumb caressing the beating pulse that led to her heart. Slowly, he unbuttoned her coat, pushing it off her shoulders. She watched passively, letting it slip to the floor.