by Naomi Ragen
She said nothing, glancing at him, then looking out at the dark night and the twirling lights of the big city, so rich and varied and confusing.
The next day, he waited for the call from the shadchan. When it came, he dived for his phone.
“What did she say?”
“Hello to you, too, Yaakov. What did she say? What do you say? Do you want to take her out again?”
“Of course!”
“You say that like it’s something I shouldn’t even have to ask. But my dear Mr. Lehman, if you remember, in the past you sang a different tune.”
He was beginning to remember who this shadchan was. It was Suri Kimmeldorfer.
“What does the past matter now?” he said impatiently.
“So, you are willing?”
“Yes. But is she?”
“I had a talk with the young lady. She said definitely yes. She will go out with you again.”
A burst of joy lit up his heart.
All week, he floated on air, an untied helium balloon, hardly hearing a word Meir uttered, unable to concentrate on the delicate nuances between various Talmudic commentators. During his evening classes, he found the tables and calculations confusing and strangely detached from context, often wondering what he was doing and why. He found himself filled with longing to escape, to feel young and alive again. To be with Rachel.
“God help me to find my bashert again,” he prayed, feeling overwhelmed with a strange gratitude, as if he and God were colluding and help had already arrived.
They went out for three weeks, finally dropping the shadchan and calling each other directly, freely, to make plans and take up conversations where they’d left off. They went unusual places together: the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Frick, the Cloisters. The depth and breadth of her knowledge and curiosity enthralled him. “I took an art class in Israel, at the Israel Museum. I wish I could be a painter.”
Shyly, she showed him some pictures she had drawn and colored with pastels—garden scenes and the hands of an old woman holding a siddur. He found them enchanting. She had so much talent!
“You should continue, Rachel. It’s a gift.”
She shook her head. “It takes free time. It takes money for supplies.”
The words hung between them like rancid smoke from a burned pot. If she became his wife, she would have neither, they knew. All her days would be spent in housework, as well as in some tedious teaching job, when she wasn’t caring for another woman’s children and then, God willing, her own. She would always work harder than other women her age. She would always have less money than they did.
Finally, the time came for a decision. “I need to meet your children,” she told him.
Fruma Esther was recruited to help tidy the apartment and dress the children. Rachel walked through the door with Yaakov at her side. Shaindele stood by tensely, holding Mordechai Shalom in her arms as he squirmed to be set free. Chasya sat on a little two-wheeler, riding through the rooms, while the two older boys, Elchanon Yehoshua and Dovid Yitzchak, who had made the trip all the way from their yeshiva in Baltimore, stood at awkward attention.
It went very well. Everyone said so. The children were friendly and courteous. Even the little ones smiled and shook hands.
But Yaakov, who stood behind Rachel, suddenly saw his home through her eyes: the distempered walls, the shabby, neglected furniture and carpets, the crowded spaces. Most of all, he saw his children through her eyes, five other partners in their marriage with demands on his love, his time, his attention, and his income; offspring of a mother who was no longer there to care for them and so needed to be cared for by a stranger, someone who must be willing to dedicate her life to them, even though they would never feel about her the way they felt about their mother. To be his partner, she would have to risk getting lost in the crowd. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about that.
They went out only once more. He already knew what her decision would be. There were no surprises. Honestly, he was happy for her that she had made the choice to find a better and easier life for herself than the one he could offer her. She was still so young, he thought, wishing her every blessing. When he dropped her off at her house, she turned to look at him. He drank her in for the last time, like a rare wine.
“I’ve enjoyed getting to know you, Yaakov. If things were different … maybe if I were older … I’m just not ready to give up yet on finding a bashert that is still single so we can start our family together.”
“Rachel … I think…”
She looked at him intently, waiting for what he was about to say.
“I think you made the right decision.”
She exhaled. “You are a wonderful man. May God bless you and your family and give you the partner you need and deserve. Goodbye, Yaakov.”
“Goodbye, Rachel. May God give you what you pray for.” He got out of the car, opening the door for her.
“Please, don’t walk me to my door. My parents will be waiting; I don’t want them to think…”
He nodded with understanding, getting back inside. Then he sat in the darkness without moving, watching as she rounded the corner and disappeared.
11
After three months in Boro Park, Leah decided she needed an apartment of her own. Luckily, money wasn’t going to be a problem. Her work for Rabbi Weintraub had been so successful that she had been besieged by local businesses and a number of other institutions to do the same for them. As a result, she had actually been to a lawyer and tax consultant and set up her own independent marketing firm. The biggest advantage was having flexible hours she chose herself, which meant even more time available for good works, like helping out the Lehmans. The children were always so happy to see her, and even Shaindele’s sour expression had been modified, if not sweetened. The bottom line was she no longer had the door slammed in her face.
She found a one-bedroom with hardwood floors on Fiftieth Street for $1,500 a month, less than half what she’d been paying on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. She thanked Rav Aryeh and Rebbitzen Basha profusely, buying them a beautiful silver cup for ritual handwashing as a parting gift. Rebbitzen Basha kissed her warmly. “Now, maideleh, it’s time to find a husband.”
“I wouldn’t know how to begin.”
“I’ll help you.”
Rebbitzen Basha made some calls, but finally—a little shamefacedly, Leah thought—admitted defeat. “It’s better if you call them yourself. Once they get to know you, as we have, I’m sure they’ll be able to find a person on your level.”
She hesitated. “They hear thirty-four plus and it’s already a story. But then they hear baalas teshuva, and they won’t cooperate no matter what I tell them.” She sighed.
“Leah-le, just, when you talk to them, be flexible. Show that you are open, cooperative. That you’d be willing to relocate. That you’ll go out with other baale teshuva and even converts. That you love children—which I know is the truth if you could love our Shabbos meals with all the screaming grandchildren! And Leah-le, I know you have a difficult relationship with your mother, but never tell them that, or that she doesn’t support your decision to become frum.”
“But it’s unfortunately true.”
“So what? It’s none of their business, and what does it have to do with you? You are you, and she is she.”
Leah nodded, confused, wondering why it was necessary to omit these things that were part of who she was. What was there to be ashamed of?
“And Leah-le, when they ask you how long you’ve been frum, count from the time you first started thinking about it, not from when you moved here.”
“Why?”
“Because people worry that baale teshuva will go back to their secular lives when they realize that our world has prob—well, it is wonderful, but it’s not perfect. The longer you are here, the more you will see.”
“Nothing’s perfect,” she answered cheerfully, not really understanding.
Rebbitzen Basha gave her a list of name
s and phone numbers, and Leah started setting up appointments with the matchmakers.
The first one was on the fifth floor of an old building with no elevator. She was still catching her breath when she found the right door. Because the button for the doorbell was hanging by a loose wire, she had no choice but to bang on the door.
“It’s open,” she heard faintly.
Inside, she found a heavyset Chassid with a long gray beard, whose black satin waistcoat hung sloppily unbuttoned over a white shirt that looked not only as if it had been slept in but had not been changed for at least a week. He seemed glued to the chair.
He didn’t ask her to sit down. He simply stared at her intently, his beady little eyes roaming over her from head to toe until finally making a crash landing on her hands.
He turned his face away. “There is a lid for every pot, but you are a difficult fit. I’m sorry. I have no one for you.”
She left without saying a single word, deeply humiliated, wondering what it was she had done wrong. She had worn only minimal makeup—afraid of appearing too modern—a long, mid-calf skirt, and a high-collared blouse that covered her elbows, both purchased on Fourteenth Avenue in a clothing store that catered to Chassidic women. Her thick, curly hair was braided and held back by two hair clips. It couldn’t have been what she’d said, she thought, or even her California twang, because she hadn’t opened her mouth. Yet the rejection had been immediate and absolute.
She trembled, feeling as if she’d been mugged.
She had always known singles her age in Boro Park were rare, much rarer than in other modern Orthodox enclaves, or even in Israel, where young religious Jews were following the trend to postpone marriage and childbearing to their midthirties. Here, the boys married at twenty-two, twenty-five at the most, and the girls even younger. There was even a lively debate going on about the year-long programs in Israel for graduating high school girls. Why did they need to be so far from home? the rabbis complained. Unsupervised. Besides, by the time they got back to Boro Park, they’d have wasted a year of shidduchim, and everyone knew a girl of nineteen or twenty was practically over the hill. Not all agreed with this viewpoint, and the girls were still signing up for the year programs. But the idea that some in the community considered a twenty-year-old less desirable because of age chilled her heart.
But most disappointing was that this person, the shadchan, who dressed the part of a religious Jew, nevertheless exhibited none of the qualities she had so come to value. A decent person, let alone a religious person, could never have treated a vulnerable young woman like herself that way. The whole thing smacked of phoniness. And yet, she had been advised that he was one of the best matchmakers for the newly observant. She tried not to be judgmental, but obviously someone had made a serious mistake in recommending him to kind Rebbitzen Basha.
She had more luck contacting a shadchan over the phone. Now, finally, she had found a woman who promised to help her. She tried to think what she could do differently to avoid being thrown out again but couldn’t. Then she thought, Maybe my stockings weren’t the right color or weren’t thick enough, modest enough. So she went out and bought 40 denier black tights.
Faigie Klein turned out to be a tall woman with a sharp, angular face whose lopsided smile—almost that of a stroke victim—didn’t reach her eyes.
“Very nice to meet you,” she said in a way that Leah took to mean the very opposite. “If you wouldn’t mind, can I ask how you got my number?”
“I was given your name by Rebbitzen Basha.”
“Ahmm.” She nodded approvingly. “A real tzadakis. She’s helped many of the girls from Rabbi Weintraub’s program, although not as many as I have. I’ll be happy to help you, too, but I can’t do nothing if a person doesn’t cooperate. It’s up to you.” She shrugged as if already facing great obstacles.
“Yes, of course. I’ll cooperate.”
“So take off your coat and hat, and let me take a look at you,” the woman said, waving her into a living room chair while she herself sat opposite on the sofa, her back straight, her hands clenched defensively in her lap as her myopic eyes peered out severely behind enormous horn-rimmed glasses. Leah shifted uncomfortably.
“First off, you should stop dyeing and curling your hair.”
Leah’s hand went protectively to the top of her head. “This is my natural color.”
The woman looked skeptical. “Nobody has such a color naturally. And all those curls. It looks wild.”
“I’ve tried to tie it back, but it’s difficult. I could cut it short.”
“No, no, men don’t like short hair.” She sighed as if already defeated. “Maybe have it straightened and dye it a nice, normal-looking brown?”
Leah felt her jaw clench. “I prefer to remain as HaShem made me. Besides, it’s expensive.”
Faigie Klein couldn’t argue with that. She shrugged. “So, we have to live with it. Anyway, after the wedding, you’ll wear a wig. But you could lose ten pounds. A size fourteen is a hard sell.”
“I’m a ten,” Leah said, almost choking.
“Oy, so maybe a more flattering style, then, something that pulls you in at the waist. Men are so picky these days. They want skeletons. Even a size six is not good enough for them. Six, they say, is on the heavy side. And you could dress a little more expensive. As I always tell you girls, you can’t afford not to. Also, a better bra, with more lift. You know, most girls have no idea what their bra size is. But if you go to Lord & Taylor, they’ll measure you and bring you exactly what you need. It costs, but it’s worth the investment. And maybe try a little higher heel? I’m not talking prutza, but a nice heel gives a woman a good posture and also a good shape to the leg, as much as we’re allowed to show. And what’s with the black tights? You’re not a Chassid, are you? It gives you heavy calves! The men, they hate that, heavy calves. And another thing…” She hesitated.
Leah felt a sickening wave of dread. What could possibly be so bad it gave even this awful, insensitive, and tactless woman pause?
“Your hands. You might consider waxing them to remove the hairs.”
Leah felt her blood rising and her legs doing the same. She itched to flee this incredible yenta with her litany of insults. Where, after all, was the much-touted Orthodox value of not treating women as sexual objects? Of appreciating a person’s spiritual attributes and inner beauty? All that emphasis on modesty, on wrapping a diamond to protect it, on the “all the honor of a king’s daughter” lying within, yadda, yadda, yadda? Looks—and only looks, it seemed—were the key to happiness for women in the Orthodox dating game, just like everywhere else. She exhaled, allowing herself to be disappointed as she turned her hands over, examining them for nonexistent hairs.
“Oh, God help us!” the woman suddenly shrieked, pointing. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is!”
Leah followed her accusing finger. She was pointing at two tiny, winged birds on the inside of her wrist. Her first and only tattoo. So that explained the fat Chassid throwing her out of his office.
“You’ll have to get rid of it immediately!” she shouted. “No religious man will go out with a woman who has an abomination like that on her skin! As it is written—”
“Do not cut your body for the dead, nor make any tattoo marks,” Leah interrupted her. “Leviticus, chapter 19, verse 28. I know, I know. But I got it many years ago, with someone who was very close to me. We were in college. Everybody was doing it. Look, Mrs. Klein, I haven’t hidden the fact that I am a baalas teshuva. I can’t help it that I did things then I only now know are forbidden. The ham sandwiches and cheeseburgers I ate—”
“God help us!” Faigie Klein clutched her heart.
“—were digested long ago. Besides, Rabbi Weintraub taught us that the Torah specifically forbids oppressing the convert by reminding him or her of their past sins. Surely you’ve heard of that, a pious woman like yourself?”
Faigie Klein closed her mouth like a fish but quickly recovered. “Get rid of it!
The minute a God-fearing man and his family see it, you are done for, and my reputation will be ruined!”
“I don’t want a man or a family who don’t observe the Torah,” she answered levelly. “If they find it in their hearts to oppress me for my past, they are neither God-fearing nor observant but vicious sinners who ignore God’s commandments.”
The woman sank back on the sofa into a thoughtful silence. “People are weak, and you must help them. Don’t wave a red flag in front of a bull. Get rid of it.”
Leah shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t … I won’t … do that.”
The woman rose. “Then, I’m sorry.”
Be flexible. “Please,” Leah begged. “It’s … the other person … he was my fiancé, and he died, very tragically, soon after we got these tattoos. I am never going to take it off. It would be like erasing him from my life.”
The shadchan sat down. “Listen to me, maideleh, you’ll at least cover it with a Band-Aid when you go out on a date. Understood?”
“Of course,” she agreed, relieved. Beggars could not be choosers. Faigie Klein was purported to be the only shadchan blessed with success in “difficult” cases. Also, more importantly, one of the few willing to take on an interesting baalat teshuva, when most of her colleagues limited themselves to boring, cookie-cutter Bais Yaakov–Lakewood matches. As a result, the woman had a long roster of unmarriageables and undesirables and desperates in her Rolodex. People just like me, Leah thought wryly, gritting her teeth and planting her behind firmly in the chair.
In the end, the matchmaker asked Leah to write up a page listing her education, background, employment, family, likes, dislikes, interests. What were her absolute red lines as far as age, appearance? Would she accept converts or the newly Orthodox? How long had she been Orthodox? It was sort of a shidduch résumé, except that instead of a headhunter, this woman was a womb-hunter.
She answered the questions truthfully for the most part, while increasing her time as an observant Jew to include everything that happened after Josh’s death.