Sotah (53 page)

“Believe!” Dvorah responded harshly.

“This is upsetting you, dearest. And in your condition …”

“Oh, my permanent condition! I’m always going to be in this condition! Forever! So let’s not talk about it anymore. I simply need your help.”

“But what can I do?”

“I want you to go with me and my sister. To stand by our side.” She was terrified to ask. Because even a tiny pause, the slightest hesitation in his response, would diminish him forever in her eyes, a man she had come to love and respect so deeply through time. Her own hesitation, her own initial anger at Dina, was forgotten. As every woman who ever loved a man, Dvorah wanted Yaakov to react the way she should have reacted. To be herself recreated flawlessly. She almost held her breath, waiting.

“Of course, dear.”

And now, perversely, having gotten exactly what she wanted, Dvorah hedged. “It won’t hurt your standing in the yeshiva? It won’t cause them to talk behind your back?”

“What an idea!” He seemed genuinely shocked at such a suggestion. “Who do I know that indulges in gossip? Why, gossip is as great a sin as murder, our sages say. As for my honor, let a man honor G-d in his actions, and honor from his fellow men will surely follow. Please, darling. You’ve had a hard day. You are tired. I’ll clean up. Just go to bed, will you?”

In the darkness of her little alcove, Dina felt the world of her childhood, of order and kindness and true piety, flood over her again. She closed her eyes to a dreamless, restful sleep.

She awoke refreshed to the morning light, gold-tinted with coppery orange streaming through the curtains. She pulled back the curtains and saw the quiet streets fill with men in their dark suits and white prayer shawls walking home from morning prayers; the Hasidim holding towels emerging cleansed and uplifted from their morning immersion in the mikveh. The trees moved gently in an easterly breeze that seemed to bring with it the smell of cakes and kugels baking in honor of the coming Sabbath, of laundry—men’s white shirts and children’s festive Sabbath dresses—flapping dry on outside lines: The houses were poor, full of patched-up asbestos and tin add-ons; cramped. But there was such a sense of order, of care, of gratefulness for every crumb of material blessing. Whatever one had was appreciated, recognized, enjoyed. This too was home.

She padded into the kitchen to wash her fingertips from the uncleanness of sleep, then recited her morning prayers, something she had not been able to do for a long time. Dvorah was still sleeping, as were the children. It was barely five o’clock in the morning. But Yaakov was up, getting ready to go to the synagogue and then the yeshiva. He had an open book in front of him and was studying.

“Welcome, Dina,” he said kindly.

She nodded, feeling awkward and somehow stained in his presence. She had hurt him so much, his standing in the community, even his chances for receiving a really prestigious teaching post in one of the best yeshivas. Still, there was no anger, no recriminations. How could their small world produce men like Yaakov and men like Kurzman? The same Torah, the same strict adherence to law, and yet the results were so utterly opposite! Like the patriarch Isaac having twin sons: one Yaakov and one Esau. What did it mean? How could you make sense of such a world?

“Thank you so much for letting me stay.”

“Please, Dina. I should thank you. You’ve given me the opportunity to do a good deed, no?” His eyes were merry.

“But I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry …” Her eyes fell in misery.

“‘The level on which a true penitent stands, not even saints can hope to reach,’” he quoted. “Please, I’m not the Western Wall, you don’t have to weep to me. I’m just a simple human being, struggling every day. G-d will judge me by my sins, my good deeds. Only His good opinion matters. You should feel the same.”

“But still, I ask your
mechila
, your forgiveness, for anything I may have done to hurt you.”

“And I give it with all of my heart and wish you well,” he said, trying and failing to button the last few buttons on his suit jacket. As usual, it was hopeless.

But Dina didn’t see that. Somehow he looked wonderful to her. She couldn’t imagine how they had ever thought otherwise.

When he was gone, she boiled some water and slowly drank a cup of coffee. The house was clean, if not orderly. There was a sense of life flowing through the small, cramped rooms—vivid and rich. She could hear the breathing of the small children, her sister’s contented deep sighs.

It was hard. It was exhausting, her sister’s life, her mother’s life. But the struggle brought so many rich rewards she had never fully understood or appreciated before, having never had any basis for comparison. It brought the sense of fullness that comes in having many children and watching them grow, healthy and uncomplicated, rooted deeply in the same rich soil that had nourished thousands of generations before; the sense of a deep, satisfying relationship with G-d; the sense of loyal, close connection with a life partner who was flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone. It brought the feeling of basking in so much love, pouring down on you like sunlight as you grew rooted in your safe, protected niche in the walled garden, warmed by caring family, kind friends.

But what happened once you were ripped out of that spot, your roots torn, replanted hastily in a pot that had known burning sunlight and full shade, cold and sickening heat? Once you had seen the ugly flea beetles, the aphids, the snails and slugs, that lived all around you, laying secretly their ugly yellow eggs, spreading botrytis, viruses, fungus?

It was so complicated. It made her head ache, her heart sink. Perhaps one had to be very, very intelligent and clever to live a satisfying life. Perhaps she was just too stupid to figure it out as so many others she knew had. Or perhaps it was just a gift bestowed by good angels at birth, a second sense that told you just which roads to choose, how to navigate all the dangers successfully. That thought surprised her. It was so lazy and fatalistic. Good angels, good fairies. It would be so easy if one could only blame one’s shortcomings on that.

She dreaded going to see her father. Talking to Chaya Leah. Even the idea of just being in the street in her old neighborhood filled her with a sickening anxiety. All those eyes, multiplied. All those young women she had grown up with, and their mothers, who had been her own mother’s friends. It was not only a dread of ostracism and abuse, but also a dread of seeing so many people she had always liked and admired suddenly embrace falsehood over truth, filthy rumors over fair judgment. She felt as if she were an unwilling possessor of a magic lens that stripped the fresh veneer off everything, revealing the old, rotting wood beneath.

She was afraid, afraid. Of so many things.

Can I really do it? she wondered seriously. But what was the alternative? To go back to New York? To Noach? Her chest contracted in panic. Or just to disappear somewhere, far away. To live unconnected, uncaring, unnourished.

Was there an alternative she hadn’t thought of?

A low knock on the door startled her out of her painful thoughts. She was inexplicably afraid to answer it, yet Dvorah was still sleeping, it wasn’t fair to wake her.

“Yes?”

“It’s me.”

Her heart jumped, banging like an enemy against her ribs.

“
Aba?
” She opened the door and there he was, older, shockingly grayer, but with the same serenity, the same kindness. As his eyes reached hers, she felt the somberness lift from his sagging old cheeks.

He had no right to be so forgiving, so understanding! It made it all so much worse! She backed away, looking at the floors, her eyes focusing on a simple, homemade baby toy, old socks filled and sewn together to make a caterpillar. She picked it up and held it against her breast, resting her lips against it, trying not to cry. So many tears. No, she didn’t want to wring sympathy from him this way! She wanted him to hear her out, to judge, as G-d would no doubt judge. She wanted his absolution based on justice, not mercy.

“Can’t you even look at me? I know I have failed you, but still, there must be some forgiveness in your heart still for your old, foolish father?”

She couldn’t believe her ears! She forgive him?

“
Aba
, I …” She couldn’t speak.
No!
she shouted to herself,
I don’t want this
! But she couldn’t stop crying. She cried and cried and cried like an infant who has no sense that love is in the world, that a warm breast is on its way, that a dry clean diaper and soothing cream exist. It was a hopeless, desperate crying. She felt his hand on her head, smoothing back her hair. Again and again, a wordless touch of comfort, of acceptance. “Sha, sha,” she heard him whisper. He lifted her chin. He dabbed her flooded face with a clean handkerchief. His aging fingers, surprisingly agile, patted her cheek as if she were six and had just fallen off the swings. “Sha, enough.”

And it was enough. All the tears were gone, used up, or simply irrelevant. “Come, child. Sit with me.”

“
Aba
. I was planning to come to you. You haven’t been well. Why did you have to trouble yourself? To travel, to walk up so many steps? …”

“I thought it would be easier this way. Besides, I couldn’t wait to see you.”

She hesitated. “You don’t … hate me,
Aba
, do you?”

He didn’t answer her, just smoothed her flaming cheek. “You have your mother’s face. Exactly that. I miss her. I’ve missed you.”

“I have to explain to you what happened. I don’t know if you can ever understand. I myself … don’t … really …”

“You don’t need to come up with excuses!” he cut her off. “You’re my daughter. You’ve come back. It’s enough.”

“
Aba
, it’s not enough! I want you to understand the truth. To understand and to forgive. But first you must know the truth, otherwise it’s not a real forgiveness. There wouldn’t be any strength … any real meaning in it.”

His eyes rested on hers. He nodded with sad agreement.

“About a year after I was married to Judah, another man began to … He was a neighbor, a married man. And he … he began to come to the wool shop …”

“
Ima
’s store?”

She heard the pain in his voice, which stabbed her soul like a sharp, pointed sliver of broken glass. She nodded miserably. “I don’t know how, or why, but I started to talk to him. Then I found I … wanted to be with him.”

“But why did you need this other man? Why did you … ?” He was trying to understand, flailing hopelessly against his dark incomprehension, finally realizing it was too vast to ever overcome.

She shook her head gently, resting her forehead on her palm, afraid to raise her eyes. “
Ima
had just died. My heart was empty,” she said with a brave effort, then faltered, her voice failing.

“And wasn’t your husband enough to fill it?”

She shrugged. “
Aba
, who can understand what fills the emptiness in a person’s heart? I don’t know why Judah couldn’t at that time, why I needed Noach. I can’t explain it …”

His mind wandered:
Let her go where her heart is
.

“But I never …” she tried to continue, and the growing agitation in her voice brought him back to the present with a jolt of pity.

How could she go on? To talk to her father, to
Aba
, about such intimate things! The words rose and backed up in her throat, choking her. “
Aba
, I never … I … transgressed the laws of
yichud
and
negiah.
Yes, I was alone with him and we touched … but nothing else, may
Hashem
forgive me. And I didn’t run away—not to him, not to anyone. I didn’t want to leave my husband and child, you and the rest of the family. Reb Kurzman and the others … the … Morals Patrol … they made me go … they arranged everything. They told me I had no choice … They sent me to America to be a maid. The people I worked for were wonderful people, but they did not keep the law. They worked on the Sabbath. They had only one set of dishes … But I was careful. I didn’t work … I ate only kosher food …
Aba
, I got sick there …” She felt it all rushing out, becoming incoherent. She stopped a moment to collect her thoughts. Only then did she notice the drastic change that had taken place in her father’s face. He was utterly devastated.

“You mean they made you go, without telling anyone?” How could such a thing be? Such a transgression, such a violation? “And these men, this Morals Patrol, they are Jews?”

“
Aba
, of course they’re Jews. They live right here, among us, right here in Jerusalem.”

“Among us, here, in Jerusalem?” He shook his head in wonder and consternation and disbelief. “But they are not G-d-fearing, surely. They are
chilonim
or—”

“No,
Aba
. They are all
haredim
, just like us. They all have beards and wear dark suits. Like Noach.”

“But why? Why would they separate a woman from her husband, her child, her family?”

“They thought I was an adulteress,” she said, wondering when she would be struck by lightning for uttering such a word in her father’s presence.

A deep shock settled into his eyes, the look that happily married people get when suddenly widowed; that parents get when they bury a child.

“But it wasn’t true. I never did. You have to believe me!”

“But they had no proof! Two witnesses they needed before acting on such an accusation. Two …” He shook his head in disbelief. “That is the
halacha!
”

She sat down urgently at his feet, holding his hands in hers. “
Aba
, I was wrong. I began a relationship with a man who wasn’t my husband. I deceived Judah. But I’m innocent of anything worse. I wish there was a holy Temple, that I could drink the bitter waters in front of the whole town and they’d see I’m innocent.”

“A
sotah.
” He looked at her, stricken, his hands resting helplessly in his lap.

“But I’ve been through the ordeal, the public shame.”