An Unorthodox Match

by Naomi Ragen

  It was so painful, as painful almost as a death. She wondered how she was going to go on. What had her mother said? You’ll never be happy with these strangers. They’ll never appreciate you and never accept you … Sooner or later, you’ll figure out this community you love so much and want to be part of is pretty much like the rest of the world.

  What if she was right? What if these things were true? And if they were, then could anything else be true? The society that she had looked up to, all the wonderful things she’d been taught about living a Torah life, a life she was making so many painful sacrifices to join in order to be part of a better world, a world where people were kinder and more honest, more authentic, where they honestly believed in and served a gracious God, was that also a fake? Was everything she had been taught simply PR? And if that was the case, what was she going to do now?

  “Aren’t there any exceptions?” she asked weakly.

  “Of course.”

  “Who?”

  “Ruth Blau. She was a convert and wound up marrying the most extreme fanatic leader of the most extreme fanatic sect, Neturei Karta, people who hate everyone except themselves. Still, their leader married her, and when his flock complained bitterly, he told them to shut up. But he was old, and she was hot stuff. Also a crazy fanatic like himself. It was a match made in hell. But it happens.”

  “So you think I should back off?”

  “You are asking me for relationship advice?” She rolled her eyes.

  “I’m asking you.”

  She cleared her throat. “I have a love, and it’s all that I have, right or wrong…” she sang in a high falsetto, mocking herself.

  “West Side Story, right?”

  “Exactly. Ask me about love, and I sing songs from West Side Story like Maria, who wound up with a dead boyfriend. So don’t ask me.”

  “Just tell me this: Can my accepting this one Shabbos invitation hurt Yaakov and ruin Shaindele’s shidduch chances?”

  “That’s nuts, but also quite accurate. But it’s not the one invitation. It’s the implication.”

  “Implication?”

  “That you and Yaakov Lehman are involved.”

  “Would that be so terrible?” she whispered, her voice weak. She was close to tears.

  Shoshana sat up. “So it’s true?”

  Leah leaned back, looking at the floor. “I think about him all the time.”

  “And what does he think?”

  “He leaves me notes. Flowers. Candy.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I never said anything because I was afraid I was just … misunderstanding.”

  “What did the notes say?”

  “He thanked me for my chesed.” Leah made the supreme effort to make the sound correctly, like she was choking and clearing her throat.

  “Go on.”

  “That’s it. But, Shoshana … I can’t explain it … I just know. He cares.”

  “You are setting yourself up for heartbreak, my friend. Even if he cares, his family will turn over heaven and earth to make sure he never acts on it. Look what they are doing about a single, innocent Friday night dinner invitation with the whole family! Imagine if you started going out alone on shidduch dates!”

  “So it’s hopeless?”

  “You are both entering a world of pain. In our world, the chassidim and the misnagdim—both of whom are strictly observant and share the same God, the same values, the same Torah—have been at each other’s throats for hundreds of years. This will be worse.”

  “So I just tell him no, I can’t do it, ever? I can’t come for Shabbos, meet with him, in any way?”

  Shoshana shrugged helplessly. “Tell him you don’t think it’s a good idea. You’ll be shocked at how fast he gets it and moves on.”

  Leah felt suddenly cold. She hugged herself. Icy would be so disappointed. But if this was just going to lead to a long, drawn-out war of endless misery for all involved, including the children, it was better to end it now before more casualties were added to that of her own heart. Everybody in that family had suffered enough. She had also suffered enough.

  “Okay.”

  When Shoshana dropped her off, she reached over and squeezed her hand sympathetically. “You’ll live through this, Leah. Believe me.”

  At that moment, she wouldn’t have sworn to it. Leah leaned over and kissed Shoshana’s pale cheek. “Thanks for the shiur.”

  “Believe me, I am so sorry I had to be the one to tell you all this. I’m sorrier than I can say.”

  “It’s not your fault, Shoshana.”

  “It’s the system. The ugly system and the great and powerful wizards hiding behind the curtains manipulating everything—they are responsible for destroying our beautiful world.”

  Leah didn’t take the elevator, walking slowly up the steps to her apartment. She needed time to think. She went in, locked the door, then sat down at her desk. She took out a piece of her flowered, lavender stationery.

  Dear Yaakov,

  I’m sorry. I can’t make it this Shabbos. Maybe another time?

  Every blessing,

  Leah

  She looked over the letter. With a sudden burst of anger, she squeezed it to a pulp in her fist, then threw it away, shaking her hands and flexing her fingers to get back some feeling.

  Dear Yaakov, she began again.

  On second thought, I can’t accept your kind invitation to join you for Shabbos. I know you’ll understand why. It is better this way.

  Every blessing,

  Leah

  She folded it carefully and slipped it inside an envelope, sealing it so that she would have to tear it apart to change even one word. She slipped it into her purse to take to the Lehmans’ the next day.

  Her steps were heavy as she walked over there the following afternoon, her mind burdened.

  “Leah!” Icy reached out and hugged her. Leah picked her up in her arms, cuddling the warm little body.

  Cheeky squealed with a dopey grin, holding out his arms to her. She picked him up, too.

  “Can we go to the park today? Please, Leah, please! I want to take my dolly with me in her carriage.”

  “Sure, why not?” She smiled.

  Chasya skipped joyfully ahead as Leah followed slowly behind, grasping Mordechai Shalom’s little hand. He was thrilled to be walking, relishing his newfound freedom from the carriage. And then, for no reason at all, the toddler suddenly leaned over, pressing his soft, little lips to her hand, kissing her.

  Quick tears sprang to her eyes, and a flow of love as powerful as a riptide pulled her forward. Her mind might have backtracked, understood that certain things didn’t make sense anymore, but her heart—her heart was in this all the way. The lyrics in that love song from West Side Story were true. When love comes so strong, there really isn’t a thing you can do. She couldn’t backtrack, she couldn’t escape. Life flowed in one direction only: forward. She had no choice but to continue.

  She leaned down and lifted the little boy into her arms, kissing him, feeling his warm, responsive, loving little arms around her neck in response. That, at least, she knew was real.

  23

  It was late when Yaakov got home. His exams had been brutal. He was disgusted with himself that he’d been unsure of some of the answers. He had never in his life failed at learning anything, no matter how difficult. Maybe it was just his age, he thought. His wits were not as sharp as they used to be. He found that idea somehow comforting. For if he were doomed to leave the study hall, it was better to feel that his chance to shine there was limited anyway.

  He felt exhausted and ready for dinner and bed as he walked into the living room. But the moment his eyes spied the little lavender envelope on the dining room table, his heart pounded joyfully. Another letter. From her.

  He opened it respectfully, as if it were something delicate that would change or be ruined by carelessness or haste. But as his eyes moved swiftly over the words, his fingers tightened involuntarily, crushin
g the paper. His arm fell as he took a step backward, sinking heavily into a chair. He took off his glasses, lifting the letter close to his eyes, rereading every word to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood. Then he jumped up angrily, refolding it and sliding it back inside its envelope before shoving it into his pocket. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he walked around in circles, finally stopping by the window. He stood there, staring out into the narrow sidewalks of old concrete, the pale, dusty trees, the dark parade of black suits and hats—like soldiers in some medieval army.

  This was where he lived. In this place. And for most of his life, he had wholeheartedly believed it the best possible place on earth, and the people who lived there—his friends and neighbors, people who stood next to him as he poured out his heart in the synagogue, people whose intelligent comments enlightened him in the study hall—the best possible people.

  He thought about her letter. He did not pretend that he didn’t know what she was talking about, just as she in her letter did not pretend this was a simple matter of postponing the invitation to a more convenient time. He admired her for that and would not demean himself or her by reacting with wide-eyed innocence and denial. He could just imagine what people had been saying behind their backs: a Torah scholar, a widower, inviting an attractive young woman, a baalas teshuva, to join him at his Shabbos table with only his children as chaperones.

  He did not blame them for their opinions, but what right, what right, did anyone have to speak to her, to shame her? He had invited her. If they had a problem with that, they should have had the decency to come to him and say it to his face instead of ganging up on a pure, innocent person whose feelings—like those of any newly religious person who has left behind their old life and embarked on a difficult new path among judgmental strangers—were easily hurt. Baale teshuva were so vulnerable. They lived in a fog of criticism: for their past behavior, for not getting all the words, all the little details, of their new lives correct immediately. Most of all, for their sincere piety, which, he thought with growing fury, irked the complacency of those who had been going through the motions since childhood and had long forgotten what it was all about.

  Hypocrites! Of course they had approached her instead of him! She was such an easy target: exposed, accessible, lacking the knowledge to turn their ugly arguments against them. Whereas he would have had no trouble sending them to Gehenna.

  What had they said? What arguments had they trotted out to shame and pressure her into doing their will? It must have been very bad, because he knew how much she was looking forward to Shabbos with the children—he didn’t dare hope that might it have been for his sake—as much as he had been looking forward to hosting her. Leah would never have willingly disappointed Chasya and Mordechai Shalom unless she had been squashed pretty hard under someone’s ugly boot. And that was simply unforgivable.

  He looked in on Chasya and Mordechai Shalom, who were both curled up and fast asleep. Shaindele’s door was shut, even though she no doubt had heard him come in. He put his hand up to knock on her door. Then, his jaw tensing with anger, thought better of it, moving silently away.

  He got into bed and tried to sleep. Despite his exhaustion, he could not. His whole body was clenched into a fist of helpless fury, his heart thumping malevolently as if it wanted to tunnel its way out of his chest. What to do, what to do? He tossed and turned, uncomfortable in his own skin. He thought of Rachel, the pleasure and excitement of their short time together, the devastation of her rejection. Didn’t people know what he had been through? What is it they wanted from him? Wasn’t it enough, he thought with heart-stopping fury, that he had let his wife die to please them and their sense of propriety?

  He inhaled sharply, shocked. Was that true? Had he let Zissele die? Could he have saved her? Maybe. No! Of course not! He couldn’t have saved her. Nothing could have saved her. And now, perhaps, nothing will save me. To fulfill everyone’s expectations, to please them, he would have to lower his head and move dumbly toward the first Monsey widow that came his way. He would have to live with her in misery and heartache for the rest of his life. Then they would be happy. Then they would shut their mouths and stop their gossiping. Or not. If they didn’t gossip about him, then they’d gossip about his new wife, even if she was the most staid, boring, overweight, middle-aged matron ever to pull a dull brown wig over her mown, dry, short hair. They’d talk about how she didn’t give enough charity, or how her wig was too long or not long enough. They’d whisper that her dresses were too expensive and not appropriate for the wife of a poor widower. Or that she dressed in shamefully cheap clothes, embarrassing the important family she’d married into. There was a problem to find something to talk about? And yet they expected—and he expected it himself—to live an entire lifetime restrained by what people might say behind your back. To present yourself always in a way that would find favor with scandal-mongers and gossipers. Did that make any sense at all?

  Most of the time, he had it easy. A member in good standing of the community who had known these people all his life, a man, he could stand up to them. But Leah … It wasn’t right that he had made her position more difficult than it already was. As much as he wanted to plead with her to reconsider, to convince her to ignore whatever it was the yentas had said to her, he wasn’t sure it was the fair and decent thing to do. And so he lay there in the dark, falling into a black abyss of hopelessness where he stayed until the light of morning lifted him, reminding him of his sacred religious obligations, which no bitterness or fury could delay.

  24

  “There is someone I think you should meet, Leah,” Shoshana told her breathlessly as they were Rollerblading around the rink.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. He is the cousin of a friend of mine. He owns a small florist shop in Manhattan. He is thirty-nine. Never been married. Newly religious.”

  “What does he look like?” she asked wearily.

  “Well, not tall, but dark and—I don’t know—maybe handsome. More short and sweet.” She laughed.

  “Too short for you?”

  “Well, the thing is…”

  Leah was shocked to see her friend’s face suddenly redden. Shoshana skated over to the edge of the rink, making her way to the locker room. Leah, surprised, followed her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Sit down, Leah,” Shoshana ordered her.

  She obeyed.

  “When you told me about Yaakov, I wanted to share the truth with you. But somehow, I just couldn’t bring myself.” She took a deep breath. “Leah, I am not single. I’m in a relationship.”

  Leah sank down on a bench, stunned. “When?”

  “Four years.”

  Four years! Leah took a deep breath. “Who is it? Why are you keeping it a secret?”

  “He’s a pediatrician, divorced. He’s not … Jewish.”

  She didn’t know which part of this revelation was the worst. Cumulatively, it was breathtakingly horrible. Leah reached out for her friend’s shoulder in sympathy. She suddenly understood: Maria. West Side Story: Right or wrong, what else can I do? How had Shoshana kept such a secret for so long? The Jewish part could be fixed. But the married part? “Was he married … when you … when it…?” Leah asked.

  Shoshana nodded. “Unhappily. I didn’t break that up. It was dead long before I entered the picture.”

  “And are you … in the picture?”

  “I love him!” She put her head between her hands, her whole body trembling like the leaves of an aspen in the breeze.

  “So all these shidduch dates…”

  “I do it for my parents. If they knew the truth, it would kill them.”

  “So what now?”

  Shoshana shrugged helplessly.

  “He could convert, no?”

  “He offered.”

  Leah exhaled. “So?”

  “My parents want a Talmud scholar from an important Hungarian Chassidic family.”

  “You can’t always get what you want.”<
br />
  Shoshana looked up. “That’s from a rock song.” They both smiled.

  “You have to tell them.”

  “I know, I know, I just keep putting it off. My father has a heart condition. My mother has hypertension and diabetes.”

  “I’m sure they’d both like to be at your wedding.”

  “No one will convert him if they know he’s doing it to marry a Jewish girl.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because an Orthodox conversion is not done for convenience. It has to be sincere, to be the genuine desire of the participant, not an expedient to another goal.”

  “The rabbis don’t have to know he has a girlfriend.”

  “Well, I’ve thought of that. But he doesn’t seem to be in any rush, to tell you the truth.”

  So, that was it. They sat together wordlessly.

  “Anyhow, about the florist…”

  “You went out with him?”

  Shoshana nodded. “He was very nice, really. Funny, considerate, intelligent. Really wants to get married and start a family.”

  Leah hesitated. “Sounds good.”

  “Shall I give him your number?”

  Leah hesitated, thinking of Yaakov Lehman. Shabbos had come and gone. He had not reacted at all to her letter. There had been no more candy. No more notes. He was simply gone. This annoyed and upset her. She’d expected—hoped?—he’d at least try to talk her out of it, encourage her to come, proclaim the innocence of his intentions and of the invitation. Obviously, she wasn’t worth the effort. He will never look at you in any other way than as his household help, she told herself cruelly. And if he did, then what? It would just make matters worse, increasing the misery all around for everyone. There was simply no future there.

  “Sure, why not?” she said impulsively.

  Shoshana smiled. “Great! I’ll give him your number.”