Jephte's Daughter (15 page)

He couldn’t have known, and she would have died rather than to tell him, that again and again in the past months since their marriage, his gentle kisses, his hesitant exploring hands, had brought her to the edge of knowledge, to that boundary she had so longed to cross. But always too soon he stopped, withdrawing himself from her as if in a deliberate denial, so that she felt as if she were going mad with frustration and disappointment.

“You will see, my dear. God will bless us with children.” He had tried at first to comfort her, startled by her pain. Now, used to it, he no longer reached out to her as she returned to bed, no longer tried to curb his resentment. His wife was an unpredictable woman, he had found out much to his chagrin. Difficult to manage. And there were still public ceremonies that required their united, smiling presence. She always tried to smile. But her eyes, bright with pain, denied it, cutting into him like knives. If he had been a different man—older perhaps, or just more experienced, or had less the tendency of all human beings to believe himself the center of the universe—he might have understood that she accused herself equally, of inadequacy, of being emotionally, even physically, at fault. He misread her sense of failure for accusation.

And as she got into bed, it became her habit to turn her back to him, not out of anger, but because she wanted to give him a chance to turn her over, to take her in his arms again and make it all come right. But he saw only the silent, stubborn set of her shoulders flatly rejecting him. For the first time in his life, he had opened himself up completely, making the ultimate, shameful concession to his physical being—he, who prided himself on his mind, the fineness of his spirit, who had spent years perfecting his denial of bodily urges! And she had looked at his offering and turned her back. It was the image of her back that came into his mind now, filling him with cool indifference. “Oh, so you are still up?”

She sat in a chair wearing the long, opaque flannel nightgown her mother-in-law had bought her, her hair pulled back carelessly. She looked at him and thought of the hours that had passed, causing the lettuce to wilt, the succulent roast to lose its juices and turn leathery, the potatoes to shrivel from tender crispness into cardboard hardness. “Where were you?”

“At the yeshivah, of course,” he bristled, seeing in her eyes the same nameless accusation he thought he understood so well. “You should be very proud of the achievements I have made today,” he called over his shoulder, walking into the kitchen to get a drink. “They all said…” He stopped, seeing the table set, the food uneaten. His heart sank with sudden understanding. But Isaac, used to parents who never, on principle, asked forgiveness from children, to teachers who had to be respected even when they insulted him, or belittled him, didn’t know how to say he was sorry. Part of a man’s character, he remembered learning, was formed by accepting the insults and injustices that were done to him by others as a God-given act meant to teach him humility and cause him to search his conscience for wrongs he had done others. It was Isaac’s curious and fatal fault, one that many pious, intelligent, learned people share, that he didn’t always know how to apply his learning. Lessons meant to teach one to forgive others’ failings, lessons meant to promote goodwill and understanding among men, misapplied, as they were about to be at this critical juncture in Isaac Harshen’s blossoming relationship with his wife, proved a turning point from which there was no real return.

And thus, Isaac, fully understanding what had happened, called out to his wife, not for forgiveness or understanding, not for indulgence, but for answers. “Where,” he asked her sternly, “did you buy this meat?”

She appeared at the door, the lamplight outlining her long, shapely legs through the material, giving a burnished copper halo to the wisps of hair that strayed around her lovely, troubled face. She made a seductive picture that angered him even more.

“I got it in the butcher shop.” She winced, pressing her lips together. She couldn’t stand him when he used that tone.

“Which butcher shop?” His voice rose, pleased with her hesitance, digging, like a miner who has accidentally struck the mother lode, for guilt—guilt that would, he had no doubt, more than compensate for his own.

“Why, does it matter? It was certainly a kosher butcher. They had a certificate from the Jerusalem rabbinate…”

“Jerusalem rabbinate,” he mocked. “Zionist appointees! It’s as good as
treife
. I wouldn’t have eaten it anyway.”

She stood stock still, looking at him as if he were a madman. It was a look that spurred him on even more.

“Don’t you know anything? Kosher meat here is not like kosher meat in America. There they eat anything. But here, we don’t trust the word of rabbis that work hand in hand with the government. They’re simply political appointees. Meat must be watched over by the Bet Din Tzedek, ‘Badatz,’ the only God-fearing…”

She covered her ears with her hands, then picked up the roast and flung it into the garbage. She watched the gravy splatter down the sides of the garbage can and smelled the flowers and the waxy scent of candles that had burned down to a sputter. She ran into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. This time, she didn’t bother to run the water, or to stifle her sobs.

“Batsheva.” He banged on the door, filled with remorse. “Please come out. I was harsh, but it was only for your own good!” Familiar words that had so often been said to him, bedrock of his childhood! “Batsheva…” His voice began to grow hopeless, and the hopelessness nudged him toward his only ally, self-righteousness. All right then, let her carry on if she must! But really, it is her own fault, her own problem. What can I do but point out her mistakes to her? After all, I could no more eat that meat than I could eat pig! A man must discipline his wife, even our sages insist upon this. He went on, distorting all the things he knew were true, all the beautiful things he had learned in the Talmud about a man’s loving his wife as himself and honoring her more than himself; about a man’s speaking to his wife in a gentle voice, as she is easily moved to tears. He was a scholar, and in his search, he had no problem finding other quotes to justify himself. By the time he was finished, he had no trouble leaving her to sob quietly in the bathroom as he climbed into bed. Exhausted from the effort, he fell asleep immediately.

When she awoke the next morning, the sun was already high, blazing through the half-opened blinds. She had no desire to get out of bed. No reason to, she thought, turning over a little bitterly. Then, as it sometimes happens, for no reason at all, she felt herself growing warm with a kind of joy, almost physically lighter. She whistled to herself and, her joy growing vast and inexplicable, she jumped up and down on the bed. Free! Free at last! For hadn’t she tried to be what was expected of her? And it had all come to nothing. In that case, she told herself, I must create my life anew, every day. If I can’t be what they want—“they” being her parents, her husband, the whole suffocating world around her—then let me be what I want! It made perfect sense.

And all at once it became crystal clear to her how she would fill her endless days. How was it that she hadn’t thought of it earlier! She went to the closet and took down a large case, handling it with reverence. Her favorite wedding gift of all. She unwrapped it carefully, looking it over the way most women might examine a precious diamond necklace. Her father had given her both actually. The jewels had been carefully crafted in Tel Aviv by master jewelers and were worth over one hundred eighty thousand dollars. Lying in a safe deposit box in a bank vault, she thought them quite a useless gift. She would have little occasion to wear them in informal Israel. But this—this wonderful camera! A Leica! That had been her own idea. She wound in the film, breathing in the metal and rubber and chemicals as if they were expensive perfume. She was going to take some wonderful pictures. She would go climbing hills to take pictures of wildflowers; up to Masada to photograph the Roman encampment and the Qumran caves where the Dead Sea Scrolls were found; Solomon’s Pools, David’s Tomb. Why, it would take months, years, to capture it all!

She rummaged through her closet to find something practical to wear and found a pair of long culottes and a boat-neck sweater that showed off her pretty neck. She remembered that her mother had been doubtful about the outfit—culottes seemed a little like pants, which were not acceptable attire for a religious girl. But there were pleats in the front that really made it look mostly like a skirt. She hesitated, then put on a pair of socks and sneakers. That was also not acceptable attire for a married woman. She looked in the mirror and pursed her lips. I will do what I want. I’m married now and Aba and Ima are old and far away, she told herself, even managing to get a little satisfaction from imagining her parents’ disapproval. She looked at herself in the mirror. That awful wig! It was so hot and heavy and it was ruining her hair. She took it off and flung it to the floor. She pinned her hair up and tied a scarf around it. Only a few bangs showed.

She repeated this ritual day after day, leaving early each morning and coming back late every afternoon. Like countless pilgrims for thousands of years, she explored Jerusalem. Compared to the other great cities of the world—Paris, New York, London—Jerusalem was a little village. Often, people would give her directions by saying: “One door down from Schatz’s butcher shop,” or “Across the street from the main post office.” There was only one department store, a handful of movie houses, and two dozen or so restaurants of note. With very little effort, she learned to know every street, every alleyway, every turn in the road. She could not get over its antiquity. In Europe she had seen homes and museums that made America seem raw and new. But Jerusalem made Europe seem like a child. In Europe, an antique might be a six-hundred-year-old chair. But in Jerusalem, something old was a thirty-five-hundred-year-old burial urn that held the ashes of men who lived and died when the Pharaohs still ruled Egypt.

Through her lens, she found a real, bustling, colorful city of incredible variety, an everchanging kaleidoscope of cultures and religions. But other times, she found a white and shining vision, nestled serene and modest among gentle rolling hills—luminous, radiant, and not quite real, occupying a space not quite in heaven and yet not quite on earth.

The month passed in a wonderful, exciting rush, the negatives piling up with fantastic accomplishment. But still there was one picture especially she wanted to take that had so far eluded her: the first morning light just as night broke and the sun appeared, revealing the whiteness of the city. It meant staying up all night, alone, out in the hills, something she would need to explain to her husband. But how could she explain this to Isaac Meyer? He took so little interest in what she did. She had once shown him her camera and he had said, “It is a sin to make graven images.”

And she had just looked at him, flabbergasted. It was true that one wasn’t allowed to make statues to worship, but that was a long way from taking photographs of the mountains, she told herself. She felt in her heart that the images she captured were a kind of psalm, a paean of praise to God for His incredible handiwork. How could that possibly be wrong? She decided to ignore him and go her own way as much as possible.

She waited until a few days before the anniversary of Israel Ben Dov’s death, when she knew Isaac Meyer would leave at midnight to join hundreds of other Hassidim to say prayers of repentance at the Western Wall. When she was sure he was gone, she jumped out of bed. The city, which usually went to bed at ten and rose again at six, was strangely alive. Crowds of black-suited men and boys walked like a dark army up the streets toward the Old City and the Western Wall. Some wore prayer shawls whose white stripes shone lustrous and dreamlike in the silver moonlit streets. She drove toward the place the Arabs call the Tomb of Samuel the Prophet, one of the highest points in the city. The road she drove along wound its way through dark orchards and forests, thick and black-green. She hadn’t expected Israel to be green. She had expected desert, camels, and shepherdesses. She laughed at herself. A sort of Disneyland Middle East. But it was nothing like that. The road took her through Ramot, a suburb that reminded her of California. Beautiful stone villas with red-tiled roofs nestled cozy and familiar in the hillside. Despite the dark, the quiet, she never felt fear. It was as if God were thick about her, the night His warm cloak. The sky felt closer in Jerusalem. God felt closer. She felt encompassed by His goodwill and protection.

She found the place just as dawn broke and she climbed to the top of the minaret. Already the muezzins at the mosque in the nearby village were sounding the call for morning prayers. Their nasal singsong blended into the fabric of the city, another thread, part of the exotic cloth she loved. Then there was only the quiet click of her camera as she captured the precious first light. She had to adjust the camera for the perfect light setting. Too much would wash it out. Too little would leave it in darkness. It must be perfect. For a few hours she sat entranced, hypnotized, enveloped by the indescribable beauty and spirit of the place, watching the sun rise and move across the sky, transforming the city, the forests, the hills, with each tiny change in the shape, or intensity, or the color of its light. As it moved, certain hills were brought forward, their white stone houses etched in bright relief, awash in red, then pink, mauve, and blue. Then a cloud would float by, and its presence would lighten all colors, like a light wash brushed over watercolors. No matter how carefully she tried to hold the scene still, to focus on it realistically, it kept moving just beyond her grasp, blurring into myth and vision. She felt awe.

She took roll after roll and felt happier than she had ever felt in her life, putting the finished rolls into her purse, taking out rolls still unopened, unexposed. She was at peace with God and man. It even made her relent toward Isaac Meyer. Perhaps she would bring him up here with her and he would feel the beauty that is not written in any book. Perhaps she could acquaint him with the God she knew—the one of kindness and compassion and exquisite, delicate creativity, who created human beings out of goodness so that they might experience the incredible beauty of His handiwork, the joy of being alive.