Jephte's Daughter (13 page)

A red flame of shame spread up from Isaac’s chest to his neck and covered his face.

“Now, now, you mustn’t be embarrassed.” The doctor patted his shoulder. “Many come like you, not knowing. They are frightened and ignorant. And the women do not know how to help you. They, too, are pure. And forget about signs of virginity. Some women never have blood. The hymen stretches without breaking. Did you use the sheet?”

Isaac nodded.

“Ah well,
kindeleh
. That, too, gets in the way.”

“But I was taught one must be modest in all ways.”

“Yes, but you must also satisfy your bride.” Oh, the sheet, the holy sheet! Each generation becoming holier than the next, adding to their lives more restrictions they didn’t need. He looked at him kindly: “Maimonides teaches that whatever a man and woman do together after their wedding is holy. Do you intend to be a bigger saint than Maimonides?”

The anger and righteousness that had stiffened Isaac Meyer Harshen’s broad shoulders left him. Like sails under a windless sky, he drooped, shrinking with remorse and humiliation. “You mean we did not actually…I did not…how can you tell?”

“
Chasan
, my dear blessed
chasan
. Do you think you are the first to come charging up here looking like the Angel of Death the morning after your wedding?” He made a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue. A sound of annoyance, of tolerance and understanding. He gripped Isaac’s shoulder. “You go home to your sweet
shana kallah
. You talk to her heart, beg her to forgive your ignorance. You caress her and kiss her until she loves you again and then you do the following.” He opened up a large, well-illustrated book to well-worn pages that had helped hundreds of boys such as the one he had in front of him become husbands and fathers. He explained everything to him like a doctor, reminded him of his sexual obligations to his wife like a rabbi, and sent him out into the waiting room with one final shake of the head and words of advice: “And throw away the blessed sheet!”

He walked home in silence and thought of the woman he had married. Her eyes were so beautiful, the lashes casting a shadow on her cheeks. He remembered how her skin had felt beneath the buttons. He wondered how it would feel to lay his whole hand over her, to caress her naked body? He had been such a fool, an ignorant fool! She would never forgive him. But he had just acted the way he thought he was expected to. He had denied himself sensuous pleasure in order not to give in to his body so that his soul would remain pure. Still, perhaps the doctor was right. He was a learned man.

On the way home he met people who had been at the wedding the night before, who greeted him warmly with excitement. “And where is your lovely bride?” they all asked him, in that sly, breathless way people have after weddings. He did not look up, nodding and hurrying by. He wanted to get home. What if she had left him? Oh, what a fool he was! In terror, he rushed homeward. He walked up the stairs to the lovely stone villa that was their new home, appreciating once again the taste and expense that had gone into its refurbishing.

She was sitting alone in the living room, staring out of the window. He came in softly and knelt at her feet, taking both her hands in his and kissing them. She tried to pull away but he held her fast. “Please, Sheva. Listen to me a moment. I beg you. I want—”

She broke free and ran up the stairs into the bedroom, locking the door behind her. Through the closed door, she heard him bang, then shake the lock.

“Please, my dear. I just want to talk to you.”

“Go away and leave me alone.”

“My dear
kallah
. Please, give me another chance. I beg you. I’m sorry.” Then there was silence. She put her ear to the door. A sound, broken and guttural. What? She slowly turned the lock and opened the door. He was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, his head in his hands in a pose of utter despair.

The sight went through her, tearing at her heart. She inched closer, cautiously ready to fly to safety if he should be faking. But he just kept on, hiding his face in his hands. He looked up at her with a face broken and tearstained, all the haughtiness, the conviction, drained out of it. He was young, a boy.

“I’m sorry, my dear, so sorry. I’m such a fool, such a stupid fool. I know nothing, nothing.”

In the agony of his embarrassment she saw reflected her own, and slowly the anger lifted from her, smokelike. She found herself inching closer to him, wanting to comfort him and to be comforted. She reached out a tentative hand and stroked his thick, beautiful hair. He reached up his hand and held her small one in his, bringing it slowly to his lips. His curly beard caressed and tickled her palm.

“I want to start again. Can you let me start again, to forget last night as if it had never happened?”

She didn’t know really if she ever could. But in his bitter unhappiness he had turned into someone so like herself at this moment that she took comfort in the thought of sharing her misery, even if it was with the one who had caused it. “All right, then.”

He got up slowly, her hand still in his, warmed between his two large palms. He took off his wide-brimmed black hat and his long black overcoat and his tie. He unbuttoned his shirt and took off his four-cornered garment and his undershirt. His chest was broad and firm, with dark tufts of hair. Batsheva turned away, embarrassed, but he held her hands and placed them on his face. He took her around the waist and very gently kissed her lips, drinking long and deep. They were so incredibly sweet, her full red lips. He kissed her again a little harder and a little longer, feeling her lips pressed up against him, part of him. Then with a fluid movement, he placed his hand beneath her and picked her up off the ground. With one leg, he kicked open the door of the bedroom and then carried her over the threshold.

After the first sexual initiation of bride and groom, Jewish Law requires them to separate immediately and to remain separate for twelve days. As will be the case their entire marriage, during the wife’s menstrual period and for seven days after it ceases, the beds are firmly moved apart; no hands may be held, and even the most casual of kisses must be restrained. Indeed, husband and wife may not so much as pass each other a cup of wine or a plate of food. The wife is bidden to wear a special brooch or hat to remind her husband at all times of her condition, and both must take care not to be alone together on vacations or in other circumstances that might encourage forbidden intimacy.

It is a difficult, almost inhuman custom that Orthodox Jews eventually learn not only to live with, but even, in many cases, to appreciate. For, interestingly, the forced physical distance often reawakens the longing and passion that so often die with the dull, surfeiting routine of marriage. But sometimes this separation can be a time of nerve-racking tension, a cause of misunderstandings, petty arguments, and mutual distrust—never more so than for a delicate bride and a hesitant, shy groom interrupted in their tenuous groping toward hidden knowledge. The custom of
sheva brachot
, feting bride and groom for seven nights after the wedding at dinners crowded with friends and relatives, wisely provides a wonderful distraction for the young couple during this difficult period.

For Batsheva and Isaac, however, not yet fully recovered from the disaster of their wedding night, their problems were merely exacerbated by the constant need to appear relaxed and smiling before endless crowds of well-wishers. Batsheva found her smile going cramped and false, the edges drooping and needing to be lifted by sheer force of will. At night, in long humid dreams, Batsheva dreamt she was a butterfly of gorgeous colors, netted and pinned to a board and covered with glass. She kept seeing the endless succession of people staring at her with enormous eyes. “Isn’t she lovely?” they would say again and again. “Oh look, how lovely she is!”

Isaac, too, felt nervous and anxious, glancing a bit pleadingly at his bride from time to time with apprehension. He was humiliatingly aware that there had still been no blood, and that they had not, therefore—as was proper and expected—entered this period of separation. And, although they had discussed the need to put up the proper appearances, Isaac was terrified that his unpredictable new wife might forget and pass him a plate of food, or touch his arm to get his attention, thus revealing his embarrassing plight to everyone.

“Aba, please,” she begged her father the night before the last dinner was to take place, “let’s have just a small party. At my house—just close family.”

He examined her with strange intensity and searching interest, then suddenly chuckled: “Tired of being a princess already, Sheva? All right. I’ll have it catered at your house. Just the family.”

It was a lovely meal. The wine sparkled with ruby light in the twinkling crystal glasses that Batsheva had chosen with heart-felt care from beautiful Waterford patterns. The translucent bone china, as thin and delicate as a petal, which had given her such pleasure to select and own, proved every bit as magical as she had hoped: its gold rims burning with suffused fire, its deep lapis blue pattern richly satisfying. She loved everything about her new home, her new things, with a child’s pure, covetous delight. Full of wonderful food and two or three glasses of fine wine, her body, for the first time since the wedding, seemed to float, detached, in a delightful distant orbit from everyone around her.

As Isaac rose to begin the
drasha
, the Talmudical explication that was as vital a part of such occasions as bread, Batsheva leaned her head dreamily on her open hand, surprised to find herself looking at him with a little of the interest and attraction of a stranger. His waistcoat, a lustrous black satin, caught and held the light in a dark, inviting sheen; the big, round mink-trimmed
streimel
hat, which had seemed so ridiculous to her at first, looked somehow absolutely right now, almost a king’s crown, adding to her husband’s impressive height, the manly broadness of his shoulders. The word that came to her mind was
resplendent
. He was so handsome, so imposing, commanding such respect among everyone in the room. She felt herself fill like a cup to the brim with the special possessive and uncritical joy that comes only to a young bride surveying her first home, her new husband.

“The Talmud in Baba Kama discusses the very nature of what constitutes a good problem. A squatter moves into a man’s field and lives there without the owner’s knowledge. Is he liable to pay rent or not? Before we can answer, we must analyze the situation. Are we talking about a field that was intended to be rented out, or one that was not? Are we talking about a squatter who would have been willing and able to pay rent, or one who would have gladly squatted elsewhere with the same benefit?” He paused meditatively, stroking his thick, dark-brown beard. “If the tenant doesn’t benefit from staying in the field and the owner didn’t intend to rent it out anyway, then one didn’t gain and the other didn’t lose. So neither is worse or better off. Thus, no one has to pay.” Isaac paused, wiped his forehead as appreciative murmurs rose around him for the clarity of his presentation. He was in his element now, sharing the confident surge of pleasure that comes to a great pitcher stepping up to the plate; a great running back just handed the ball; a great surgeon peering at an anesthetized patient, scalpel in hand. “However, what if the owner intended to rent out the field and the squatter had intended to pay rent? In that case the owner loses and the squatter gains, so the squatter is liable to pay.”

“But what,” Batsheva’s excited voice rang out as she placed her arm urgently on Isaac’s, “if the squatter would have been willing to pay for staying in the field, even if the owner didn’t intend to rent it out? In that case the squatter gains, but the owner doesn’t lose, so again, neither is liable.” Her voice had risen triumphantly.

Isaac looked at her, the blood draining from his face in surprise and mortification. Isaac’s father tilted his head slightly, his mouth open. Others leaned back in their chairs, speechless. Contrary to what Isaac feared, most had not even noticed her arm on his. They were indignant and fearful of becoming forced witnesses to a perplexing, indeed unforgivable, breach of custom and etiquette that required women to sit silent and slightly befuddled on such occasions, full of respect and gratitude for being allowed to breathe in, if not understand, the words of Torah spoken by scholars. Her crime was compounded by the fact that she had interrupted her own husband, humiliating him and calling immodest attention to herself.

Abraham Ha-Levi rose quickly and patted his daughter’s arm. “You must forgive the bride. She has forgotten she is not in school now, eh?” He chuckled indulgently, opening the way for others to search for the humor they had so dangerously missed.

“A real Bruriah,” one of the men said, with a broad smile, invoking the legendary woman scholar mentioned in the Talmud, known also for making her husband’s life a misery and for eventually strangling herself because of her brash, untoward invasion of the male realm.

“Better be careful.” Isaac’s father wagged his finger at her in amusement. At this signal, a welcome murmur of levity washed over the guests, like a warm wave. Small, frozen smiles of embarrassment melted into wide grins; the stern, appraising valleys crossing the face of Isaac’s mother relaxed into mere surface roads. Some leaned over to whisper pleasantries to Batsheva, who sat blushing and defiant and secretly amazed at the fuss. The color returned to Isaac’s face and he forced a tight smile, nodding at his wife even as an inward shudder ran through him as if at a sudden evil portent. Her eyes, confused but unrepentant, met his with a flicker of amusement that unnerved him. He looked away quickly and, as the laughter died down, took up the thread of his explication.

Keeping her head down, Batsheva stared into her plate. The calm, the acute pleasure she had felt just moments before in exercising her intelligence, was spoiled for her now. Silently tapping the plate with an impatient finger, she waited for Isaac to finish and the last of the guests to leave so she could have it out.

“What did I do that was so awful!?” she said crossly, when only her parents and Isaac were left. She flounced with careless petulance into the white, down-filled velvet couch, disarranging the pillows and pulling them into her lap like a spoiled child.

“Nothing, my child.” Abraham Ha-Levi shook his head a little sadly.

Isaac, leaning against the wall, pressed his lips together, his jaw rigid with fury. “Nothing? Excuse me, Aba, but it was extremely awkward for me…”

“I know, my son.” She’s right, he’s right. Everybody’s right, Abraham Ha-Levi thought wearily. I can’t untangle these things. I never could.

“What is wrong with a woman knowing things? I was right, wasn’t I, in what I said, Isaac?”

“Of course, but that isn’t the point…” Isaac couldn’t believe he needed to explain any of this.

“Then what is wrong? I’m sorry if I embarrassed you by interrupting you, Isaac. I guess I just enjoyed what you were saying so much, I got caught up in it and forgot myself. But really, Aba,” she turned her attention back to her father, aware that Isaac’s expression had not budged, “when will I go back to school? I want to register at Hebrew University for spring semester. I have to do it now, or it’ll be too late—”

“The university!” Isaac’s shocked voice exploded. “I can’t believe my ears! No religious man or woman can go to that place of incredible impurity! How could you even think such a thing!”

“But Rabbi L——has a degree from the Sorbonne. Everybody knows it!”

“Ah, Rabbi L——.” He took a deep breath, suddenly conscious of his harsh tone and the startled, inquiring eyes of his new father-in-law, who sat stroking his daughter’s arm. “But you see, my dear, people like Rabbi L——have spent their lives learning Torah from sunrise to sunset. They know so much, and are on such a high spiritual level, that the wisdom of the goyim can’t shake their faith. They can understand and assimilate it without it harming them. But you—you will forgive me, my dear, you are very bright and know much more than most women—but you are still very ignorant and vulnerable. It would turn your head, confuse you.” He looked at Abraham Ha-Levi, seeking confirmation, but got only a noncommittal, rather cold nod of understanding.

“But I love to learn. I told you that before we were married.” Isaac didn’t miss the accusation that had crept into her voice and it frightened him a little. “Perhaps I could learn Torah day and night too, bring myself up to that level, or at least close, and then go!”

Isaac laughed, glad to be on sure ground again. “It’s unheard of for a young married woman to learn that seriously. It would take all your time—besides, it would soon bore you.” Derision, amused contempt.

“Really, Batsheva, do you want to be cooped up with Talmuds all day?” her mother said doubtfully.

“I want to go to the university,” Batsheva persisted, ignoring both comments. Hadn’t she weathered similar battles all through high school? She fell into the familiar, tried-and-true strategy that had never yet failed her. She turned her eyes and attention full on her father’s face. “I can’t see how it would hurt me. Really, Aba, do you think it would? How could it?”

Abraham Ha-Levi looked at his daughter’s pleading eyes, her lovely face. He had carried them both around with him, close to his heart and mind, since the moment she entered the world. She was dearer to him than his own life. And yet, what could he do? He rose heavily, silently, his straight back bent a little as if under some unseen burden. “It is late and we should be going.”

“But, Aba,” Batsheva’s voice rose with surprise and indignation, “can I—”

“Batsheva,” he said curtly, wearily, his heart contracting, “you’re a married woman now who doesn’t need her father’s permission for anything. You and Isaac talk it over.” He turned to his son-in-law. “I’m sure you will help Batsheva to learn. Perhaps even teach her yourself.”

“Why, of course, Aba, nothing would give me more pleasure.”

There was ingratiating sincerity and unconcealed doubt in his voice that mingled in a way his father-in-law preferred to pretend he did not hear. Abraham Ha-Levi went to the door and as he turned to go, he felt his daughter’s arms tighten with childish love around his waist. Gently, but firmly, he pried them loose and walked away, feeling suddenly very old.

Her father and mother kissed her good-bye, her mother wetting her cheek with lipstick and tears, her father, straight-backed, impeccable, shaking hands with Isaac. She didn’t know how her parents felt. A balloon of fear, of anguish, that began as a small controllable bubble inside her chest, began to grow as they neared the airport. She had wanted this, to be free, and yet some invisible, almost veinlike connection between herself and her parents seemed to throb and ache. “So far away in a strange new place,” her mother sighed tearfully at the airport.

Batsheva patted her mother’s wrinkled hand, hiding her own discomfort, her sense of panic at being left there, alone, to fend for herself with only her husband, this stranger, as family. “I will be fine.” She smiled brightly. The Good Daughter, saying all the right, expected things. Did they notice how hollow and false the words rang? Did she want them to? Did she want them to say: Ah, we have made a mistake, come home with us? Her mind fantasized on it a moment: the silent, disgraceful trip home. Endless mortifying explanations to friends, teachers, and relatives. And then the stream of darkly dressed suitors, endless boring conversations, endless cups of tea, and by the end of the year, yet another attempt at matrimony with someone who would probably be no better (indeed, probably infinitely worse) than Isaac. God, the Torah, her womanly role. They all pointed in one immutable direction. Stay the course. Pray for a child. Rejoice in your home. Besides, there was one large compensation—Jerusalem. “I love Jerusalem, Mother,” she said sincerely. “Let’s think of it as just my going away to school in New York.” Aging, worried parents.