by Naomi Ragen
She smiled to herself, nodding pleasantly to acknowledge the many greetings that followed her down the street as she made her slow but steady progress. As she expected, the principal, Rabbi Halpern, couldn’t have been nicer or more accommodating. He even insisted on walking her down to Shaindele’s classroom and going inside to fetch the child. To her surprise, when he exited the classroom, he was alone.
“She didn’t come in today,” he told her. “Is she ill?”
She shrugged, smiling as she apologized. But the real smile, the natural outgrowth of unburdened relief, was now a forced artifice, plastered on her face for show as she walked quickly to her son-in-law’s house. She rang the bell. When there was no answer, she stood there knocking and knocking until a neighbor opened the door to see what was going on. Fruma Esther smiled at her, too.
* * *
“A woman is waiting outside,” someone told Yaakov, interrupting a lively discussion between himself and Meir about tithes. He got up quickly, hurrying out with a growing sense of discomfort. No one who knew him would interrupt his precious learning time unless it was an emergency. The idea ballooned in his head like cotton wool pressed against a cut, growing larger and more blood-filled with every step.
It was Fruma Esther. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, but I need to speak with Shaindele.”
Now his dread lapsed into confusion touched with annoyance. “Shaindele? Where should she be at this hour? She’s in school.”
Slowly, she shook her head, watching her son-in-law’s face collapse with the panic that was slowly filling her heart.
Fruma Esther and Yaakov hurried home, but it was empty. Yaakov picked up the phone and called Leah, not because he thought his daughter would have confided in her but because he needed to hear her voice.
“I’m coming right over,” she told him.
* * *
All three of them sat in the living room silently.
“Maybe she discussed her plans with one of her friends,” Leah suggested.
“All her friends are in school. I don’t want to take them out of class,” said Fruma Esther, shaking her head. “The school doesn’t need to know about every narishkeit.”
Leah thought about it. It had only been a few hours. There was no point in getting Shaindele into trouble with her school unless there was absolutely no choice. “Yes, all right. We can wait and call them at home.”
“I’ll call my family, my brother in Baltimore, although if he knew something, he surely would have called me.”
Soon he returned, crestfallen. “He hasn’t heard anything. He’ll call the second he does. I also spoke to the boys.” He shook his head, disconsolate.
The hours passed. Leah went to pick up the little ones from school and day care. Their happy childish voices and bright smiles were like putting on the lights in a dark room. Yaakov kissed them and held them close.
It had been more hours than they could bear to think of since anyone had seen or heard from her. An innocent young girl, and she was out there in the world, alone. They prayed to God to have mercy. And then they waited.
31
It was the most logical thing to do, Shaindele had told herself that morning as she wandered around Penn Station lugging a small suitcase. But the place was so big, so confusing! She had never been in Manhattan all by herself. At the most, she’d only ever traveled fifteen or twenty minutes from home on local Boro Park buses.
The shoes, she thought, were a mistake. She thought she’d get dressed up, like for Shabbos, but the most she had ever walked in them was to and from shul. Now, they were pinching her toes viciously, the too-slim heel tipping her forward, making her feel as if she were about to pitch over at any moment. She reached down to massage her raw, aching heel, glancing around at the noisy crowds.
There were so many strangers wearing such immodest clothing! She straightened, lowering her eyes, trying to calm her panic. Taking a deep breath, she bunched her tender young lips together in determination. It will be all right, she told herself as she scanned the signs. You’re not stupid. You can read. If all these people had figured out where to go, she could also figure it out.
Eventually, after many twists and turns, she found herself at a row of counters with a sign that said Tickets. She joined the line. It was long, but standing in one place was easier than walking around in circles. It was already ten o’clock. She thought about her classmates, her teachers. She wasn’t worried anyone would wonder where she was; she had been late and absent so many times over the past year and a half. They think I’m home washing dishes again, she thought as a secret smile crept slowly across her face. If only they knew! Eventually, her turn came. “I want to buy a ticket to Baltimore,” she told the man behind the counter.
That was the beginning of her trouble. What time, which station, what kind of ticket? he asked. But she had no answers.
“Do you want the stop at the airport, or at Penn Station in Baltimore?” he asked again, impatiently. Then a man behind her—mean-looking, with tattoos all over his arms—said, “Move it, girlie; I have a train to catch.” The combination so frightened her that she lost her voice for a moment and even considered running away. Gathering all her courage, she turned back to the ticker seller.
“Not the airport.”
“And what time did you say you want to leave?”
That at least was easy. “Right away.”
He tapped on a computer. “There is an Acela Express leaving at 11:00 a.m. That’s an hour from now.”
“Okay. How much?”
“It’s $124, one way.”
Her heart sank. She had counted her birthday and Chanukah money. There was barely one hundred dollars. “Maybe something is cheaper?”
He tapped on his screen. “I can get you on the Northeast Regional. It’s about twenty minutes longer than the Acela Express, but it’s only $84 one way. There is one seat left in coach, and it’s about to leave. Do you want it?”
“I’ll take it,” she answered quickly, zipping open her little pink wallet and counting out her money, which included quarters and dimes. She pushed it toward him. Maybe it was the coins, or how little her hand looked on the counter, but he suddenly looked over the counter more carefully. “Are you traveling alone?”
She nodded, quickly pocketing the ticket he handed her as small winged creatures took flight in her stomach.
“How old are you?”
“I’m sixteen.”
“Okay. But just know that if you’re younger, they won’t let you travel without filling out some forms. Do you have any ID?”
“ID?”
“Move it already!” the man behind her practically shouted.
She turned, hurrying away with her suitcase, occasionally looking over her shoulder, frightened the ticket seller might send someone after her who would demand she relinquish her ticket. She was sixteen, but she knew she was small for her age and had nothing to prove she was telling the truth; Bais Yaakov didn’t give out student IDs. All at once, she felt her confidence shaken. She had not even left the city and already was faced with so many things she hadn’t planned for or thought about, making her feel childish and incompetent. And now she needed to find the right track before her train left the station, taking her precious, expensive seat with it!
Hopelessly lost, she looked around for someone to ask. She was afraid to ask a man, having never spoken to a strange man in her life. In fact, she had practically never spoken to anyone who wasn’t an Orthodox Jew. She looked for a woman, preferably with children. So many were black. She had no experience at all with black people. There weren’t any in Boro Park, except for the very, very rare convert, or various strangers briefly passing through.
Finally, she saw a booth with the word Information banded across the top. But the line was so long! She’d miss her train! Pushed beyond her fears by the real possibility of winding up penniless and forced to return home in shame, she finally approached an older woman with a cane who was sitting on a bench. The w
oman listened to her kindly, but then shook her head, answering her in a language that wasn’t English. More time wasted! Now her terror became real.
“Excuse me, miss. I overheard you asking that lady where to get the train to Baltimore?”
Horrified at being approached by someone she didn’t know, she nevertheless looked up hopefully. It was a black woman wearing a sleeveless blouse tucked into skin-tight pants. Around her neck was a huge cross. Shaindele trembled, forcing herself to be calm.
“Yes.”
“I’m going in that direction, so you can follow me if you want. I’ll get you there.”
Shaindele nodded wordlessly, walking behind the woman, taking care to keep a safe distance. The woman glanced behind her once or twice, then shrugged, rolling her eyes. Eventually, they emerged onto an outdoor platform filled with trains. But the woman didn’t turn around, disappearing into the crowd without a word.
Shaindele watched her go, panicking as she looked over the huge area with so many trains. How will I know which one? What if she made a mistake, got on the wrong one, and wound up far away among strangers with no money to get back? The thought was terrifying. But soon she realized that there were official-looking people checking tickets. She presented hers and was directed to her train. “But you’d better hurry, honey; it’s about to leave.”
She ran, dragging her suitcase, the word honey echoing offensively in her ears with its rude familiarity. The suitcase felt much heavier now than it had in the morning when she’d secretly returned to what she knew would be an empty house to fetch it. Quickly, she climbed aboard just in time to hear the whistle of imminent departure. Once safely inside, she felt stirrings of regret about her behavior toward the kind stranger who had helped her to find the correct platform. Why had she been so afraid to walk beside her? Why, she’d never even said thank you, which was probably why the woman had gone off without a word. She looked down the platform hoping to see her again, wishing she’d be on the same train so she could make amends. But she was gone. I must stop being so afraid of trusting people. I must start acting like a grown-up instead of a little girl, she berated herself.
She walked through the cars, checking the seat numbers against those on her ticket, glancing once again at the price. Almost all her money! It doesn’t matter, she comforted herself. Uncle Chaim would pick her up from the station. They would take care of her. She didn’t need money.
With relief, she found her seat, leaning back and settling her small valise beside her in the aisle.
“Would you like some help putting that up?”
He was a man, a stranger. Despite her good intentions, Shaindele froze, looking down stiffly, ignoring the question, until he shrugged and moved away. But soon another stranger came by, another man.
“You might want to put that suitcase someplace where it doesn’t block the aisle,” he told her brusquely as he stepped over her and the bag, brushing against her as he made his way to the window seat.
She was stunned. He was yelling at her! And he had touched her! And now he was sitting next to her, a stranger, a man! She felt sharp tears come to her eyes as she jumped up, grabbing her bag and hurrying down the aisle. She went through several cars until she found a place to stand. Shaking, she held on tightly to a pole as the train began to lurch forward rapidly, her breath coming in quick, sharp bursts. She felt almost faint. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, she tried to tell herself, helpless against the rising tide of panic that once again flooded wildly through her body like waves lifted by hurricane winds.
She saw a conductor walking toward her. She looked down, wondering if the ticket seller had told someone to take her off the train because she couldn’t prove her age.
“You should really find your seat,” he told her.
“I found my seat,” she answered, still looking down.
“So why aren’t you sitting in it?”
She shrugged.
“Hey, how old are you? Are you here alone?”
His voice was suddenly suspicious, she thought. Oh no!
“I’m sixteen,” she said shrilly. “And I have a ticket.”
“Sixteen? Are you sure? If you are under sixteen, you needed to check in with customer relations at the station and fill out a form. Did you do that?”
“I’m sixteen,” she insisted, hot, angry tears filling her eyes as she lifted her head and looked at him defiantly.
“Got some proof? An ID? Something from your high school?” The silence lengthened.
“I go to Bais Yaakov in Boro Park. I’m in tenth grade. They don’t give out IDs.”
“Can you tell me your date of birth? Quick now.”
She told him.
He did a fast calculation in his head, looking her over carefully, his eyes focusing on the long sleeves, the mid-calf skirt, the old-fashioned thick braid. “Bais Yaakov, huh? What kind of place is that?”
“A strictly religious Jewish school just for girls.”
He exhaled, his eyes becoming kinder. “First time alone on a train?” he asked her.
She nodded gratefully.
“Okay. You shouldn’t be standing here between cars. Let’s take you back to your seat.”
She followed him. He helped her put up her suitcase and punched her ticket. “You know when to get off, right?”
“Baltimore. Penn Station. How many stops?”
He told her. “But don’t worry. I’ll come back to make sure you get off at the right place. You wait for me.”
“Thank you very much. You are very kind,” she told him, trying to make amends for her previous behavior.
The man in the window seat leaned over, ignoring her and addressing the conductor. “Thanks for putting up the bag. She had it blocking the aisle. Got all huffy and left when I pointed it out to her.”
“Did she?” The conductor crinkled his eyes at her. “And what tone of voice did you use to speak to this young lady?” he asked.
The man leaned back, clearing his throat, obviously disgruntled.
The conductor winked at her. “You have any problem,” he said pointedly, “you come find me, all right?”
“Thank you,” she whispered, close to tears.
She leaned back, trying to calm herself. I can do this, she told herself. I can run away. Escape. I just have to stop being so afraid all the time to talk to goyim. Look how nice that woman had been! And the conductor! I’m out in the world now, she told herself. I have to learn to get along, to stop being so suspicious of everyone. It was a big world, even though she had only ever seen a tiny part of it. All that was going to change. It was already changing, she thought happily, looking out the big picture window at the strange, unknown fields and houses that flew past. She sighed in happiness, finally relaxing.
For months, she had been secretly plotting. It was the most logical thing to do, she told herself again. To join her brothers in exile. Of course, her uncle and aunt would be surprised to see her. But surely they would never turn her away or send her back home once she explained what was going on back there. Surely, she told herself, they would share her outrage and stand side by side with her, ready to help.
They were, after all, not only her family but also strictly God-fearing and righteous members of the haredi community like her family, her father, used to be. Surely they would understand the urgency of her plight and the fact that she was doing the only thing she could to ensure her future: embarking on an urgent search for a shidduch which must be found for her before the disastrous union between her father and Leah could take place and blacken her family’s reputation, bankrupting the store of goodwill in the community for their good name and yichus. She was like three-day-old meat in the refrigerator, she thought, which urgently needed to be cooked and eaten before it went bad and became worthless.
Once she married, she’d be safe, she thought. A respectable matron in a different community where people knew her uncle but not her father. There, no one would care who her father had married. Of course, her a
unt and uncle, her brothers, her grandmother would be shocked at first. But once they reflected on the situation, she was certain they’d all form one unit, siding with her and her husband against her father and his reckless choice. And once she got settled, she and her husband would insist on taking in Chasya and Mordechai Shalom to protect them. But not right away, she reflected guiltily. She needed to wait. Hopefully, with time, certain unfortunate memories would fade from their minds. Children forgot quickly, didn’t they?
She thought about her life as a married woman. It had to be easier than her life now. First of all, there would be no children to take care of—that is, until she had her own. And that, God willing, would take time. The longer the better as far as she was concerned. Secretly, she wondered if it might never happen, like with some couples. She didn’t care. Look how miserable every birth had made her mother! But no, being childless was impossible. After ten years, the rabbis would insist your husband divorce you and take a new wife to fulfill the mitzvah. But all you needed to do was have one, she comforted herself. Then your husband and your mother-in-law wouldn’t be able to complain or feel cheated. Just one, she thought, to keep people’s tongues from wagging that your husband had made a bad shidduch or that God was punishing you for your sins. And even that could take years. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the prospect of having to care for a demanding, dirty infant.
Don’t think about that now, she told herself. Think about the nice little apartment in Baltimore you’ll move into with your husband and how you’ll only have two dishes to wash after every meal, along with a small pot or two. Think about how on Shabbos your in-laws will invite you over, your mother-in-law doing all the work and treating you like a queen. For just the two of them, there wouldn’t be much laundry. Once a week, she’d put up a load. As for the dreaded ironing, she could manage every two weeks, or when her husband ran out of white shirts. She’d make sure he had dozens of them. Or maybe she’d never have to iron. She smiled to herself. Maybe she’d be one of those lucky young wives who sent out their laundry. Such things were not unheard of, even though the women who did it were gossiped about and looked down upon for their extravagance.