by Naomi Ragen
Leah smiled, touched. “What bracha is that, Icy?”
“I could make a shehechiyanu.”
Oh, Leah thought, the blessing for some new and wonderful experience, for firsts. Blessed are You, Lord our God, Ruler of the Universe Who has given us life, sustained us, and allowed us to reach this day.
“Or I could say, ‘Baruch she’bara brios naos b-olamo.’”
Blessed be He who made wonderful creatures in His world, Leah translated with tears in her eyes. She loved this so much about Judaism, that people stopped to express gratitude to God when they were filled with joy. How lovely that at such a young age this lovely little girl already grasped this. “Maybe I should make a bracha on you, Icy. The doll is pretty, but not as beautiful as my Icy.”
The child threw off her covers. Clutching the doll, she crawled into Leah’s lap, lying her head on her breast. They rocked together blissfully. It took Leah a while to realize Yaakov was standing in the doorway watching. He, too, had tears in his eyes.
Oh, hell, she thought, unable to wait another second. “If you need me to come back for a little while, I’d be happy to do it.”
He nodded gratefully, trying to hide his bottomless relief, the embarrassing depth of his neediness for fear it might frighten her away. “But you have your business to run. I couldn’t ask you to do it for nothing. I’d want to pay you at least something, but I don’t know how much I can afford—”
“Please!” she interrupted him. Then, almost under her breath, “I miss the children so much.”
There it was, out there. A stranger, a young woman, who loved his children. He looked at his little girl, curled up in Leah’s arms, her pale face already getting some color. The feeling, he saw, was mutual.
He sat down abruptly, something breaking inside him, making it impossible for him to continue the pretense. “Everything is falling apart since you left,” he told her frankly, forgetting his pride, all his reasons for hiding the truth. “If you could, it would be a tremendous help. The children would be so happy.”
He said this in all sincerity, giving only a fleeting thought to Shaindele. She would be furious, but it could not be helped. She was a troubled young woman, he realized. She had crossed the forbidden boundary, lying and slandering this good person simply to get her own way. What possible benefit had she gotten from it? Her machinations had only served to make everything more difficult and unpleasant for everyone, especially herself. Even now, she was struggling to catch up with her schoolwork. And Chasya had wound up in the hospital. He found it hard to fathom her motivations. Her actions had been simply irrational and self-destructive. Then it suddenly struck him: Zissele, haggard and wild-eyed in her blue nightgown. A cold stab of icy fear pierced his heart.
17
As soon as Shaindele got to school, she was surrounded by girls. “We heard your sister is in the hospital, “HaShem yishmor!”
“Your poor family,” Freidel Halpern said, clutching Shaindele tightly by the shoulder and peering deeply into her eyes. “First your mother, now your sister. Such a rachmones, HaShem should watch over you.”
Shaindele froze. Freidel with her perfect blond French braid and polished clean face, on whom even the horrible uniforms of Bais Yaakov looked chic, was two years ahead of her and the daughter of Rabbi Shlomo Halpern, principal of their school and a most respected and praised Torah scholar. Freidel was one of seven sisters and four brothers, all of whom were Boro Park royalty. Often, Shaindele dreamed of the handsome Halpern brothers. Just to be friends with Freidel raised your reputation. And to be pitied by her did the opposite. Everyone would now heap praise on Freidel for her kind concern, but the object of her pity would be labeled one more unfortunate suffering Godly disfavor and requiring prayers and rescue. There was no lower status.
“Who is watching your baby brother?” Freidel investigated.
“My bubbee,” Shaindele answered, already feeling the flames from the upcoming inquisition licking her aching heart.
“Not the baalas teshuva with the wild red hair? We heard she practically lives in your house. A young unmarried woman. Is it true?” Friedel asked sweetly, her eyes narrowed.
“No, no, she’s not there anymore,” Shaindele breathed, grateful that at least about this she didn’t have to lie. “She only came for a few weeks, and her hair was more blond than red—”
“We heard months,” Friedel’s sidekick, the plump Gnendel, interrupted relentlessly.
“A little while, to help out, so I didn’t have to leave school so often. Reb Aryeh and Rebbitzen Basha recommended her. And my bubbee, Rebbitzen Fruma Esther Sonnenbaum, would be there with her. It was a chesed to help a baalas teshuva, everyone said.”
“So, now she’s gone?” Freidel demanded.
“Yes, yes, my tateh told her not to come back.”
“Why is that?”
“Just something I saw. I told my tateh she wasn’t shayich.”
“What did you see?”
“It’s … loshon hara.”
“Not if she is in the neighborhood and people need to be warned about her. It’s a mitzvah,” Freidel wheedled.
Shaindele hesitated, wanting to supply the goods Freidel wanted but knowing it was wrong. “She had a tattoo!” she finally burst out, unable to resist.
“HaShem yishmor!” all the girls gasped.
“On her wrist, two birds.”
“And the little ones saw it?”
Shaindele sighed. “How could they help it? She was there all the time.”
“And your tateh never noticed?”
“My tateh never met her. He was learning, and then in night school.”
“I heard your tateh dropped out of kollel and is learning to be an accountant. That must be hard,” piped up Gnendel, who was no genius and no beauty but did have four older brothers who were all in a top yeshiva in Lakewood.
“He hasn’t dropped out of kollel!” Shaindele protested weakly.
“I think about your family often, Shaindele,” Gnendel continued, ignoring the interruption. “My father says accounting is a very good profession for those who drop out of kollel. He himself tried it, but my mother wouldn’t hear of it and made him go back to learning full-time. So sad, nebbech.” Gnendel’s father was now the head of his own kollel, a small, minor one to be sure, but still. Her future was assured.
Shaindele thought of her father. He could have gone in the same direction, and then her future, too, would have been safeguarded. But instead, he had started night school and was well on his way to dropping out. So, everyone was talking about it. First her mother, then her sister, now her father. Oh, the disgrace of it!
“Yes, such a rachmones,” Freidel agreed, commiserating, her eyes alert for Shaindele’s reaction.
“If you only knew what a wonderful Torah scholar my father is,” Shaindele said defiantly. “He is still in kollel. But yes, it is a rachmones. Since my mama’s levayah…”
Even Freidel Halpern shifted uncomfortably at this reminder of the poor, dead woman, as did Gnendel and all the other girls who had pushed together to watch this scene unfold.
“God bless you, Shaindele. You did the right thing to tell your father about the tattoo. It’s a mitzvah. May HaShem help your family and watch over them,” Freidel said piously, quickly changing the subject now that the ghost of that unfortunate woman had been invoked and was hovering over them. Needling an orphan was beyond the pale, even for her. Later, perhaps, when the air had cleared, she could corner Shaindele alone. She had lots more to say to the girl with her pretty pink cheeks and lively brown eyes, granddaughter of the great Admor Yitzchak Chaim Sonnenbaum. It never hurt to tear down possible rivals, but not when there were so many witnesses.
Shaindele nodded, sweat breaking out on her forehead in relief as she watched Freidel, Gnendel, and their friends turn to go.
She was weary when she got home, and worried about Chasya. She felt guilty about the child and the huge fight they had had just before her little sister got si
ck. But it wasn’t her fault! Someone had to discipline that child. She’d come home from kindergarten with her white tights covered in mud.
“Who do you think does the laundry? You do it on purpose to aggravate me, you little machashefa!”
Chasya threw a shoe at her, which hit her right in the middle of her shoulder, muddying her newly ironed blue school blouse. Shaindele saw red. She didn’t even remember how long or how hard she spanked her sister. She only stopped when Chasya began vomiting.
“Aach, all over the floor! You did it on purpose! I hate you!” she screamed at the child, who cowered in the corner, vomiting again until she fainted.
Shaindele thought at first that she was faking but then realized something was really wrong. She lifted the child in her arms and rushed into the bathroom, wetting her face with a washcloth. Slowly, Chasya opened her eyes. She was terrified, flailing, pushing out of her sister’s arms. It was then Shaindele called her bubbee, who rushed over and took the child to the emergency room in a taxi.
“Is anybody home?” she called out.
She heard footsteps then saw her father standing in the living room, his arms folded tightly across his chest. “Shaindele,” he said, his tone strangely blank. “Come sit down.”
Her heart sank. “Where is Chasya?”
“Your sister is going to be fine. She is coming home tomorrow. Tell me, what happened yesterday before she got sick?”
She lowered her eyes. “Nothing. I don’t know. She said her stomach hurt. She started vomiting. Then she passed out. I called Bubbee.”
“She passed out?” This was news to him.
“I washed her face with cold water, and she opened her eyes. Then I called Bubbee.”
“And that’s all? Are you sure? Be very careful to tell me the truth, Shaindele, because you don’t always do that.”
She was shocked. Her father had never in his life spoken to her this way. She was rattled, mortified. “Tateh, of course I do!” she protested weakly.
“No, Shaindele, you don’t.”
“What do you mean?” Her heart began to beat with ferocious speed.
“You told me that Leah Howard has a tattoo.”
She exhaled, confused. “But that’s the truth!”
“I met her. She came to the hospital. She has nothing on her wrists. Nothing. Why would you lie to me?”
“I swear I’m telling the truth!”
“Don’t swear, it’s a sin! I also asked Chasya if she had drawn birds on her hands because Leah had birds on hers. I told her you said it was hard to wash off. Chasya said it wasn’t true, that you just don’t like Leah, so you make up lies about her. Is that true?” His voice was harsh.
She felt like a cornered animal, confused at how to escape this amalgam of lies and half-truths. “Of course Chasya said no. She hates me.”
“Shaindele!”
“It’s true! She blames me for what happened to Mameh.” This wasn’t true, but in her heart, Shaindele felt it could, maybe even should, be.
Yaakov unfolded his arms and sank into a chair. Wearily, he covered his eyes with his hands. “This has been so hard. For all of us. I know.”
Shaindele sat down opposite him. She nodded, tears coming to her eyes.
“I don’t know why you would make up such things about a pious baalas teshuva who has done nothing but help us. The doctors think your sister’s illness is because she’s upset. She was very close to Leah, and I asked her to leave because of a lie you told me.”
“It wasn’t a lie! And they are not so close!” Shaindele shouted in panic, afraid where this was going.
“Shaindele, she came to the hospital. I saw them together.”
What could she say? She was silent, fidgeting with the fringes of a couch pillow.
“I’ve asked her to come back.”
No! ‘Tateh, you can’t!”
“Why not? Why are you so against her?”
“You don’t know … you don’t understand … in school … the girls…”
“What?”
She hesitated, thinking about the consequences of telling her father the truth, that their family was under scrutiny because of her mother’s death; that they were being examined and talked about. She would have to admit that she had told Freidel about Leah’s tattoo, making herself look good at Leah’s expense. All these things were hurtful and shameful. Knowing her pious father, he would be outraged both at the girls in school and at her for wanting such friends. So she said nothing.
He exhaled deeply, resting his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers under his chin. “Shaindele, let me tell you a story. There once was a very wealthy man who had a successful soap factory. This man, who considered himself very smart, had thrown off the yoke of the Torah, telling himself that there was no Law and no Judge. One day, he was walking around town when he met a rav. ‘Rav,’ he said arrogantly, ‘your Torah is useless. It simply has no effect. Just look at all the nasty people in the Jewish community. I really can’t understand why you continue to teach it.’ This is what the rav answered: ‘My Torah is perfect. It is your soap that is useless. If I were you, I would get out of the soap business.’
“‘What are you talking about? My soap is the best on the market.’
“‘Well, why don’t we take a walk and discuss it further,’ the rav suggested. Soon they passed a playground where children were in the sandbox covered in dirt.
“‘Just look at those children!’ the rav exclaimed. ‘They are so messy and dirty. Obviously, your soap is useless.’
“‘How can you say that? My soap is the greatest. It’s just that those kids haven’t used it yet.’
“‘My Torah is also the greatest,’ said the rav, ‘but those who are mean-spirited have yet to use it.’ Do you know what Rav Yermiyahu used to say in the Talmud? ‘Even a non-Jew who keeps the Torah is to be regarded as equal to the high priest.’”
He saw Shaindele’s eyes light up in confusion and anger. He ignored it. “As it is written in Isaiah: Open the gates so that the righteous nation that keeps faithfulness may come in. It does not say so that ‘priests, Levites, and Israelites’ may come in. Every person, even a non-Jew, who keeps the laws of the Torah is equal to the high priest.”
He looked at his daughter, his eyes worried but compassionate. “I don’t know what is going on with you, Shaindele, but if people are unkind to you, if they talk loshon hara, they are not God-fearing Jews who keep the Torah. You must be stronger than they are, my child. You must let our holy Torah guide you. It’s not just words. It’s a way of life. Do you know what it means to ‘love your brother as you love yourself’? The more you give to your brother, the more you will love him. Leah Howard is a sincere person, a good person, who is a stranger in our midst. How many times have I told you that our Torah tells us we must always treat the stranger kindly? Can you do that, my child? Can you keep the Torah and make me and your mameh proud?”
She hung her head in shame, for the moment more afraid of his bad opinion than Freidel Halpern’s. She knew it would not last.
18
The only cure for grief, someone had once told her, was love. Only now, reunited with the children, did Leah Howard understand what that meant.
She thought of the days following Joshua’s death, the despair, almost suicidal, the spiritual emptiness. She remembered seeking out the young, trendy rabbi who had given the eulogy, sitting down next to him after the funeral at Josh’s parents’ home.
“Rabbi, tell me why God would do this.”
He shifted uncomfortably, trying not to spill his coffee or unbalance the plate of quiche and smoked salmon in his lap. He shrugged. “This is the deck of cards you’ve been dealt. Now you have to deal with it.”
She’d been flabbergasted, almost physically ill. If this was being Jewish, she wanted no part of it! With the same warmth and enthusiasm with which she had once sought out God, now she rejected Him, her bitterness a poison she guzzled, the only casualty herself. She wanted revenge! If He
was there, she wanted no part of Him! He could do anything, and He had done this, taken away this precious person and along with him the life she had planned for and counted on. He had taken away the many years of life Joshua, her first love, had coming to him by right of having been born. And why? Why, why, why? The accident was so sudden, so senseless. If there was a God, why didn’t His world make any sense?
She raged, rejecting the comfort of friends, resenting the commiseration of family—her own and Josh’s. Then she fell into a deep depression. If only I’d held out my hand to him sooner! If only we’d slid down together! She wanted to be with him, wherever that was, instead of here, alive and alone. Every tiny reminder of their history together was like a bullet piercing her heart: the large oak tree in the park they had passed on their runs; the corner coffeehouse with its huge carrot-apple muffins and the smell of cappuccino; the familiar Chinese logo on a takeout food box in a garbage can.
She quit school and gave up their apartment, packing up carton after carton and shipping them to her mother. Then she and her cartons, which she had neglected to label, moved back into her old room.
Her mother, trying to be helpful and supportive, only made things worse. “There is a reason for everything.” “He wouldn’t want you to grieve forever.” “It’s time to move on.” “Be strong.” And worst of all: “I know how you feel.”
Looking back though, it was probably her mother’s absolute incompetence as comforter that drove her back into the world, if only to escape from her unbearable clichés. After four months of crying, gaining ten pounds from eating products that—whatever their catchy labels—were high-fructose corn syrup mixed with palm oil and chocolate, and the nonstop watching of daytime television soaps and talk shows, she finally cracked and did a web search for “master’s degree in marketing programs New York City.” The East Coast was as far away as she could get. Columbia, ranked number one, was ridiculously expensive. And who wanted to live near that dangerous campus up in Harlem anyway? She settled on the Zicklin School of Business at Baruch College, which was part of the City University of New York. She’d work for six months and save up money for tuition, then apply for federal student aid. The school had an excellent reputation, was reasonably priced, and after a year, she could claim New York State residency and be eligible for a reduction.