The World Outside (17 page)

“That He does, Miriam.”

“Papa, tell Mama she’s wrong!” I pleaded. “I don’t want to get married. I want to study to become a singer.”

“Your mother is right,” Papa said. “It’s time for you to marry.” His tone was terse and he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“There are certain rules that Lubavitcher women like us must follow,” Mama insisted. “Certain things are forbidden to us. We don’t sing non-religious songs, and strange men aren’t allowed to hear us sing. And there is nothing more important to Hasidic women than Hashem and our families.”

I grabbed her hand. “Please, Mama! I don’t want to get married. I want to study music. I want to become a singer.”

She pried off my fingers. “It’s no use arguing with us. We know what’s best for you. Mrs. Ostorov has already found you an excellent boy. His lineage is even better than ours. His forebears have been followers of the Lubavitcher Rebbes even longer than ours have.” Her face softened. “Of course, you must also like him. If you find that you don’t, we’ll get you somebody else. For now, keep an open mind. He’ll be picking you up tomorrow afternoon.” She drew her hand over her brow. “It’s late. Sleep on what we told you. I’m certain that by tomorrow morning, you’ll realize we’re doing what’s best for you.”

What could I do? What could I do? Baba! I had to see her. She was my only hope. She took such pride in my accomplishments. She wouldn’t want me to give up my studies to get married at seventeen!

I rushed up the stairs and banged on her door.

“Come in!”

My grandmother was in bed, reading one of her religious books. She put it down on top of her quilt when she saw me, red-faced and tears streaming down my cheeks.

“What’s the matter, my dear?”

“Please help me, Baba! Mama is forcing me to go on a
shidduch
date. But I’m too young to marry. I want to study music and become a singer!”

“A singer?! Have you lost your mind?” Baba said angrily. “Have you no modesty? Have you forgotten how the Rebbe wants us to behave?”

I plucked at her quilt in desperation. “Please, Baba, help me! Talk to Mama. She’ll listen to you.”

“Your mother told me that she found you with a boy. Not even Chabad.” She shook her head and picked up her book. “Do as she says.”

“But—”

“Go!” She pointed to the door.

I could see it was futile to argue, so I left her side and slouched back across the room. As I was closing the door behind me, she called after me: “I love you, Chanie! I know you’ll do the right thing.”

I didn’t sleep a wink all night. I decided I’d phone David first thing—he would know what to do.

But Mama and Baba didn’t leave me alone for even a moment the next morning. Both of them were in great humor—chatting and laughing with me—but I knew what they were doing. I was their prisoner, forbidden even my one phone call.

Finally, it was time to get dressed for my date. I knew it was pointless to refuse to go, and I thought that
by giving in, I could at least buy myself time to make plans with David. I could always tell Mama that I didn’t like the boy.

“Here,” Mama said, holding out an object wrapped in tissue paper. “I have a present for you.” She pushed the package into my arms. “Open it. It’s the blouse I wore on my first date with your father. I used to be about your size, so it should fit you.”

The blouse was made of white silk and had shiny pearl buttons. I ran my fingers over the material. It was very soft.

“It’s so pretty!” Baba cried.

Mama looked at me expectantly. “Do you like it?”

As I stroked the fine material, I thought of David and the blueness of his eyes. I thought of how I felt when I sang. I thought of the scholarship waiting for me at Juilliard. I thought of the dress with the lace sleeves that I wasn’t allowed to wear.

“No, I don’t,” I said tersely. “It’s not my taste.”

Mama’s face fell.

“I’ll wear my Shabbos clothes instead.”

He arrived in a shiny black car and his name was Shmuli Wexler. He looked good in his Hasidic clothes and he was nice too, but he wasn’t David.

The first moments alone in his car were awkward, and we both stared silently through the windshield. At
least Shmuli had the car to drive. I had nothing to keep my hands busy. We passed Faygie’s house without talking. We passed a car belonging to the Shomrim, the Hasidic volunteer patrol tasked with keeping our streets safe. Shmuli waved to the driver without explaining how he knew him. Finally, when we got to Devorah Leah’s house, I couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

“My best friend lives there,” I said, pointing it out to him. “Her name is Devorah Leah Berman.”

“Does she have a married sister called Goldie?” he asked.

“She does.”

He laughed. “Goldie is married to my cousin Yaacov.”

As we began to talk, I realized that we knew a lot of the same people. His sisters attended the same school I used to when I was younger, and Shmuli was a year ahead of Yossi in the same yeshiva.

Finally, we arrived at the Pierre Hotel, right near Central Park. He opened my door and stood aside as I climbed out, ensuring that we would not touch even by chance.

The glamor of the hotel lobby took my breath away. The black-and-white marble floor was covered by Persian rugs, and crystal chandeliers hung from above. Shmuli settled me on a graceful sofa and sat down on a chair across from me. I was glad of the air-conditioning, for it was hot and humid outside.

He told me that he was in his last year at his yeshiva. His ears turned red when he described his future plans.

“Once I’m married, I’ll learn the Torah in a study group with other newly married men for a year, and after that I’ll go on outreach with my wife.”

“Really? That sounds wonderful.”

“That’s what the Rebbe wants us to do.”

A white-coated waiter came to take our order. Shmuli ordered a Coke for himself and a Sprite for me. I felt myself relaxing as I sank back into my seat and sipped the cool drink through a straw.

Shmuli talked more about his hopes for the future and his need for a wife.

“I’m looking for somebody who has common sense,” he said. “I need a partner to do the Rebbe’s work.”

“Where will you go?”

He shrugged. “Wherever the Rebbe sends me.”

I leaned back in my chair. “It’ll be exciting for you to live in a new place, to see the world outside of Crown Heights.”

“It will be, but only if I have the right girl with me.” He smiled shyly, looping his scraggly beard around his finger, just like Papa. There was something comforting about him. I felt as if I had known him for a long time.

The waiter came and lit the small candle on the table. It cast mysterious shadows on Shmuli’s face. I looked at
my watch: several hours had passed and I hadn’t even noticed. It was getting dark outside.

Shmuli bent closer to me. “You know, Chanie, I really—”

I knew he was going to tell me that he wanted to see me again. To be honest, I wouldn’t have minded seeing him again either, but then I remembered that he wasn’t David. I stood up before he could complete his sentence.

“Excuse me for a moment. I’d like to freshen up.”

“Of course,” he said. He stood up politely as I left.

I passed the washrooms and headed toward the front entrance of the hotel. The bellman rushed to open the door for me.

“May I call a taxi for the young lady?” he asked in a jovial voice.

“No, thank you. Is the subway station far?”

He pointed to the left. “A couple of blocks that way.”

I walked so fast that I attracted unwanted looks. I bought a token, just as I’d seen David do, and ran down the stairs to the platform. The train was just pulling into the station. I boarded, full of confused emotions. Shmuli was a nice boy—handsome, even—but he wasn’t David.
He’s not David, he’s not David, he’s not David
, I kept on repeating to myself.

When I got to the stop nearest my street, I left the train and climbed the stairs to street level. A strange scene greeted me there. Groups of young black people
were running up and down Eastern Parkway, throwing rocks and bottles at the windows of houses. They were going from house to house, rushing up the steps to the front doors and banging on them before running away. They were screaming, “Heil Hitler! Death to the Jews!”

There was no sign of the Shomrim. What should I do? Where could I hide? I began to run in the direction of my house. As I turned the corner of my street, I ran straight into a black boy with a beer bottle in his hand. He was a tall boy, close to my age. A dozen of his friends stood behind him, and I could smell the liquor on his breath.

“Well, well,” he crowed. “What do we have here?”

His friends surrounded me.

CHAPTER 18

“W
anna party, girlie?” the boy asked. He was slurring his words.

“Please let me go. I just want to go home!”

“Stupid bitch!” cried another boy. He was older than the others and his face was disfigured by a jagged scar that ran from his mouth to the corner of his eye. He grabbed my skirt and pulled me over to him. I heard it rip. “Let’s have some fun with her!” he said to his friends.

“Whatcha doing, Clarence?” the first boy said. “She’s just a kid, for God’s sake!”

The boy called Clarence squeezed my wrist so hard that I had to bite my lip to stop myself from crying out. I noticed that he was sweating heavily and his hands were trembling.

“Have you lost your mind, Elroy Macklin?!” a voice rang out.

All of us swiveled around to face the sound. Jade was standing behind us, her legs planted firmly apart, a plastic grocery bag hanging from her arm and her fists clenched. “You picking on teenage girls now? Big hero! You let my friend go or I’ll tell your mama what you’re up to!”

“We got us two birds now!” the boy with the scar cackled.

“How dare you call me a bird!” The words snapped out of Jade’s mouth like bullets from a gun.

“Stop it, Clarence!” Elroy said. “If my mama finds out, I’m in big trouble.” Suddenly, he shrank to the teenager he was.

A murmur of assent broke out among his followers.

“Let her go, Clarence,” demanded a scrawny boy. “I don’t want no trouble.”

“What’s wrong with you all?” asked Clarence. “We can have some fun with these two!”

“Count me out!” the scrawny boy said.

“Me too,” said the boy next to us.

“Stop it, Clarence!” Elroy said again, more forcefully this time. “My mama would tear a strip off me if I did anything to these girls!”

“She won’t find out,” he sneered.

“Oh, yes, she will,” Jade said. “My aunt goes to the same church as his mother.” She pointed to Elroy.

Clarence finally dropped my arm. He spat on the ground, then tossed his beer bottle at the window of the
house behind us. The noise of breaking glass filled the air.

“Get out of here!” he shrieked at me. “Get out!”

I saw Jade’s bag fall to the ground and milk spill out of it.

“Run!” she cried, grabbing my hand. “Run!” She galloped away with me beside her.

I ran and ran, faster than I had ever run before. From the corner of my eye, I saw crowds everywhere and overturned cars. One of them was on fire. I didn’t stop until I’d arrived at my house.

Jade was already climbing the staircase next door. “Get inside, Chanie—and stay there!”

I was too terrified to even thank her. I ran up our front steps and was reaching for the door when a hand pulled me in. It was Yossi.

“You’re finally home!”

“What’s going on?”

“Come to the kitchen. Papa will tell you.”

My parents and Baba were sitting at the kitchen table, but it had been moved from its usual spot in front of the window facing Rita Mae’s garden. For some reason, all I could think of was that the table was in a different spot.

My parents jumped up and hugged me. Even Mama.

“Are you all right?” she asked

“Why did you move the table?”

“It’s safer to be away from the window,” Papa said. His eyes took in my disheveled hair and my torn skirt.
“What happened to you? Shmuli Wexler phoned to tell us that you ran away. He was worried sick! How could you do that to him?”

“I-I just … I needed to get out of there. I came home by subway and ran into some black kids on the street. What’s happening?”

Yossi jumped up. “If they hurt you, I’ll kill them!”

“No, no! They just scared me. But that was bad enough. Jade from next door came along just in time and saved me.”

I told them everything that had happened.

“You should have seen her. She was frightened out of her wits, but she faced down those brutes!”

“I was mistaken about her,” Mama admitted, shamefaced. “Baruch Hashem that she came along when you needed help.” She drew a tired hand over her brow. “She’s a fine girl, just like her aunt. Rita Mae came over and invited us to stay with her in her house. She said we’d be safer there. She’s probably right, but I don’t want to leave my home. Whatever happens.”

“Mrs. Orville’s a good woman,” I agreed.

“And a good friend. Just like Jade is to you.”

I turned to Papa. “But you still haven’t answered my question. What’s going on out there? Why are all those black kids throwing rocks and bottles and screaming about us?”