Jephte's Daughter (31 page)

“When I was younger, I had a friend at school who was Jewish,” Grace interjected suddenly. “She invited me for dinner and I asked for a glass of milk with my meat. Well, her father went into a long explanation of why it wasn’t permitted, and what it all meant. I was awfully embarrassed, although thinking back now, I don’t see why I should have been. It was rather odd, after all.” She smiled sweetly at Batsheva, with just a hint of malice.

“The Hebrews are an ancient superior race. Why, look at how many Nobel prizes they’ve won! Look at Disraeli!” Robin blurted out. “They’re basically the same as the rest of us. It’s just that we don’t know very many since they travel in such different circles. Now, if we could just get to know them better, they wouldn’t seem odd to us at all…”

“That’s not true, my dear, strictly speaking,” his mother corrected him. “I mean about not knowing them. There was that family from America—the Goldshmidts, was it?—that bought the Clemens estate. They must have poured enormous amounts of cash into it, which they never seemed to run out of. We had them here a number of times. You do remember, dear, don’t you? I personally found them charming. But I’m afraid most of our neighbors didn’t think so. They wound up moving away in the end,” Lady Haversham said a little abstractedly, as if trying to remember. “Back to a place called Scarsdale, if I recall correctly.”

Batsheva winced. Jewess, Robin had called her.

Looking at it with strange objectivity, it was incredible to her that the sheltered, wealthy, beautiful Batsheva Ha-Levi should be looked down upon by people whose own culture and education, whose own heritage, went back a few hundred years, while her own went back thousands. An old house full of tacky antiques her father could buy and sell in an afternoon, she thought meanly. And the calm she so treasured, that came with real manners, real culture—certainly Grace had been brought up with precious little of it. I come from a real aristocracy, she thought with sudden pride. Generations of people whose achievements in scholarship, in pious leadership, earned them a princelike status. And each generation had to contribute, to rise up to its heritage, not simply hand down old clocks finely polished, old houses and old bank accounts.

All my life, she thought, I have been sheltered by wealth and family and community from understanding who I am, what it means to be a Jew. Now, stripped of everything, vulnerable and alone, she experienced the raw pain of blind prejudice and unthinking cruelty that had been her people’s lot for centuries. And these good, cultured people perpetuated it, instilling it in their children, giving it posterity through their complicity and—she glanced at the earl—their accepting silence. She pressed her lips together.

“Will you please stay to dinner, dearest?” Robin implored, ignoring his mother’s raised eyebrow. “I’m sure cook can arrange for something—a salad, fruits…”

“No, thank you, Robin. I’m afraid there is nothing here I would be able to swallow.” She stood up and wiped off her dress, as if shaking off centuries of foul dust. And when Robin took her home, she answered his good-night with a good-bye.

“Sheva?”

“Back here, in the darkroom, Liz,” a voice said faintly. Elizabeth looked around the room and shook her head in amused shock at the chaos. Books were piled everywhere. Blooming flowers and plants, green, sprouting things, spilled over out of old bottles and milk containers, creating a hothouse atmosphere. The dull-gray walls were covered with blown-up prints of photographs: the cryptically lined face of an old woman selling flowers in Covent Garden; a beautiful chameleon caught changing colors. Akiva weaved through the happy disorder, ferrying blocks back and forth in a little red wagon he dragged behind him. Elizabeth rumpled his curly bent head, and he looked up at her briefly and seriously, then broke into a careful smile.

“Close the door quickly. I am so glad you’re here. Wait until you see this one!”

“I don’t see how you can stand it in here.” Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at the sour odor of chemicals rising from large plastic basins. “It’s as dark as Hades.”

“Just look…”

The women stared down at the large blank sheet. Batsheva held it carefully with plastic tongs, shaking it gently from side to side in the clear liquid. Around the white spaces gray, then black began to form. Batsheva grew quiet, staring at the developing print. When it had set, they took it out into the light. It was a picture of hills with tiny white houses nestled within valleys under gray billowing clouds. At its center, a magnificent ray of light was just breaking through, the embodiment of benediction. The light was perfectly caught within the darkness.

“It’s magnificent,” Elizabeth said, breaking the silence. “It reminds me of Ansel Adams’s pictures in
Yosemite and the Range of Light
. Where’d you get it?”

“It was one of the first pictures I took in Jerusalem. I thought Isaac had destroyed it, but then I found this undeveloped roll of film that was stuck under some papers in my purse.” Her face grew sad staring at the picture.

Elizabeth watched her, startled. Everything was going so well. After a short period, word of mouth had inundated her with customers. One of them, an art professor, had been so pleased with a series of portraits of his little girl that he had introduced Batsheva to a gallery owner, who had asked to see her portfolio with a view toward a one-woman show. She had developed a large, lively group of friends: Indian scientists, local poets and artists, young dancers. She especially seemed to attract rich young members of the upper classes. But she very seldom dated anyone. Elizabeth was amazed (Envious? She sometimes wondered.) at how many invitations the girl had to turn down every week. There was this fascinating innocence, yet a mystery, a world-sadness, about her that attracted the romantic interest of men. They all wanted to protect her. To make love to her, too, no doubt. Elizabeth’s mind wandered for a moment, wondering: Does she? She looked at the girl again. There were actually tears in her eyes.

“What is it? Come on, tell old Lizzie.”

“You’ll think I’m sick in the head.”

“We all know that. Spill it.”

“They’ll be preparing for Passover now. The sun is already summer-hot and so close to you, it’s like a layer of clothing. The windows will be open and people will be banging dust out of carpets and pillows. Curtains and sheets will be billowing on clotheslines, dancing in the breeze. The men will be carrying matzohs home from the factories. Everything will be white.”

Elizabeth followed her gaze out the window to the gray buildings, the gray sky of London. I always forget how different she is, Elizabeth thought, looking her over. Most people would lump everything together in their mind. They wouldn’t be able to sift the good from the bad, blaming the place in addition to the man, the society. She had come out of hiding and her hair hung long and thick and black with an almost Oriental silkiness. She looked like a rare bird.

“Hey, this is supposed to be the happy ending. Beautiful young maiden flees wife-abusing fanatic and finds freedom and fame in the big city.”

“Freedom, yes. Fame, maybe. But there is something missing.”

“Yes, and I know exactly what it is, my little chickadee.
Romance!
”

“That’s not even funny.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be. You need the Big Love! Lady Batsheva’s Lover. I can just see it now. Directed by David Lean, music by Michel Legrand, a script by…”

“Moses.” She laughed.

“My dear, that would be no fun at all.”

“Exactly. As long as I’m married to Isaac anything I do with another man is a mortal sin. Do you know what the punishment is for adultery? It’s like committing murder—you lose your place in the World to Come, your eternity. Can you see making that kind of sacrifice for any man?”

Elizabeth chewed her lip pensively. Well,
now
I know. She doesn’t. Where have I had this conversation before? Flesh versus spirit. Heaven versus hell. Ian’s brother, David. A wicked smile lit up her face as a thought crossed her mind. “You sound just like a man I know. Very spiritual type. You’d like him, you know what! Just exactly your type. Very dishy too. I’m going to have a little get-together tonight with some friends. You must come over and meet him.”

Batsheva shook her head with an ironic smile. “I don’t know. Men are such a problem. I go out with them and really enjoy their company. And we see wonderful plays, or operas, or ballets. But it’s never enough for them. They always want something more from me that I can’t give them.”

“Do you want to give it to them? Are you suffering in denial? Or is it just a great excuse?” They looked at each other and giggled.

“Not such a big sacrifice,” Batsheva admitted. “You see, I like them all up to a point, and then they kiss me. It’s sweet, but…”

“No bells, no hot, thunderous red flashes of lightning?”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“My dear, I know the feeling well. Graham was a fully tuned thunderstorm for many years.” Her face got a fixed, pensive look.

“You miss him, don’t you?” She was anxious to change the subject, as well as curious.

“Yes, and I hate myself for it. He isn’t good enough for your pure, dear friend.”

“But I thought Ian and you…”

“Ian is a well-known poet, while I’m a mere lowly Ph.D. candidate. We travel in the same circles, that’s all. He is ten feet deep in women. It would be a long-distance romance.”

“Will Ian be there tonight also?”

“Dunno. Haven’t asked him yet.” Her stomach got butterflies, just thinking of it. Years go by and nothing changes. Still waiting for the man. Well, at least the man had changed to a considerably higher variety. That was a progress of sorts, she comforted herself.

“Will you come?”

“All right. But only to check out Ian, to see if he’s worthy of you.”

The soft noise of music, cultured laughter, and ice tinkling in tall glasses wafted gently through the windows, reaching Batsheva as she stood undecided in the street before Elizabeth’s apartment house. It was a friendly noise, but still, it implied a certain cohesiveness, a group. She had come to be wary of such situations. You never knew when you’d run into more Grace Pernells. Elizabeth had invited her a number of times, but she had always felt awkward. They were such an educated, sophisticated crowd. She felt like a stupid child among them. She let out a deep breath and climbed the stairs, knocking quietly with an absurd hope that no one would hear and she could go home. The door opened immediately.

“Well, hello.”

She stood there dumbly, looking into the man’s laughing blue eyes, his large and very handsome face. There was something so familiar and comforting about him, yet at the same time something compellingly different. He wore a soft, well-worn blue sweater and a kind of funny white collar beneath it. He was tall enough for her to have to lift her chin to see him smile down at her. His eyes had a searching, penetrating intelligence, a brightness that was almost frightening.

Mercifully, Elizabeth came along and rescued her. “I see you’ve met David.”

“Not really. But I’d be eternally grateful for an introduction,” he said warmly.

“David Hope, Bets—”

“Batsheva,” Batsheva interrupted her impulsively, suddenly unable to bear the thought of this man calling her Betsy.

Elizabeth covered her confusion well, hardly losing a beat. “Batsheva Levy. Batsheva is a soon-to-be-famous photographer and one of my dearest friends, David. She has lately been fending off the entire young male wolf population of London, just as you have been fending off the sweet foxes. You two actually have much in common.” She smiled and left them.

His large hand held her small one so warmly and comfortably that she did not even consider that she might ask for it back instead of following him to the quiet corner near the fireplace where he led her. He seated her carefully on the most comfortable available chair. “I’ll get you some wine.”

“No, please.”

He looked at her curiously. “A teetotaler?”

Here it comes, she thought with dread, the beginning of another beautiful evening in London. “Actually, it’s against my religion to drink nonkosher wine. But a beer will be fine.”

“You must tell me all about it, it sounds fascinating.” He handed her the beer and sat cross-legged at her feet. She looked into his eyes and searched for the usual criticism, surprise, and contempt, but found only clear openness, and the pure interest of a scholar.

“Please, I’d rather not,” she said. “I just don’t want to be a specimen tonight. I hate talking about my religion and all the things I have to do because of it. Orthodox Jews have two million things they can and cannot do. If I get started, I will bore both of us stiff. I just want to feel like everyone else tonight. To relax and laugh and flirt a little.” She took a long drink. “I don’t mean to offend you.”

“Ha!” he gave a sharp snort of laughter and stretched out. “Offend me!? I can’t believe it! You sound just like me! That’s what I keep telling all my friends! It gets so awful sometimes I just want to scream! The same questions again and again—about God, about religion, about sex. They refuse to believe I am just as normal as the rest of them. They think I must be some kind of throwback to the Middle Ages, or repressed or just a fool.”

Batsheva closed her eyes for a moment. Perhaps I am dreaming, she thought. But when she opened them, David was still there at her feet, his friendly eyes searching her face, proving that she had not conjured him up out of her desperate need for companionship and understanding.

“All the time I have been here,” she began quietly, “I have felt so alone. Religion has to be shared. Friday nights and Saturdays. Sabbath meals. I have learned to keep this to myself. People are so prejudiced against religious Jews. They find us so queer because we cannot eat with them, or join them on weekends. But I didn’t know that Elizabeth had any other Jewish friends—” She smiled at him with such excitement and pleasure.

For the first time, his honest eyes seemed to cloud with doubt and then with sadness. “My dear,” he said, taking her hand, “she doesn’t. I am not Jewish.”

“But, you said…”

“I’m not Jewish, but I know all your feelings well. I’m a novitiate. I’m going to be a priest.”

She got up abruptly, but he took her hand in his and gently pulled her down. “Now, you’re not going to treat me the way people treat you, are you?”

Her heart was beating so fast and so loud. I am frightened, she thought, hating herself for her youth, her inexperience, and her prejudices.

“Or, for that matter, the way people usually treat me!” He laughed, an open, generous laugh. She found she could not help joining him.

“How could I? It would prove that I was the same as all those people I have been telling myself I am superior to all these months.” She laughed.

“You mean you’ve been harboring this humble sense of superiority against the world even as it attacks you with its contempt? Heavens. Just like me.” He shook his head. “Now,” he took her hand again, “having gotten that out of the way, can we go back to your original plan, which sounded, I must say, very good to me.”

“‘Plan’?”

“Yes, you know. The part about relaxing and laughing and flirting.” He saw her eyes widen just a fraction with shock. “You’re thinking: ‘My Lord, flirting and laughing and he almost a priest!”’ He saw her face relax. “Please, each religion has its pluses and minuses. Right now, I’m not breaking a single vow. Are you?”

“Well, I can’t think of any, but I must be.”

His eyes rolled upward: “Well, heaven be thanked for that at least.” Someone had put on a record, and the room was reverberating with dancing.

“Shall we?”

She shook her head. “I never learned how.”

“Good. It’ll be the blind leading the blind then.” Again, his warm, kind hand enveloped hers and she felt herself lifted up against her will, all her struggle gone. He took her hand and put his arm around her waist. He was very slim and graceful for such a tall, powerful man, she thought. He pulled her carefully toward him and for the first time in her life, she danced. She felt the strong muscles of his chest and thighs, and she breathed in the warm male fragrance that rose from his beating heart as he bent his body considerately to hers. They danced until all their stiffness and reserve melted away into the music. She felt him rest his cheek delicately against her hair. For some reason, she was not afraid. Perhaps because there was no insistence in him, no demands. He danced with her, leaving her free, but sharing generously all that was best in him. When the music ended, they stood still for a moment, neither wanting to move. When they parted, they both felt a new shyness that had not been there before.

“Batsheva and David, you must come here and give us your opinion,” Elizabeth called to them from across the room. Batsheva walked over gratefully, glad of the distraction. She felt as if she had been on raging white water thundering toward the edge of a precipice.

“Batsheva, I want you to meet Ian, David’s brother,” Elizabeth said, her face alive, almost glowing with pleasure and pride.

She looks so very lovely, Batsheva thought, studying her friend’s gold hair burnished by the dancing flames in the fireplace. Her body was soft and voluptuous in a long emerald cashmere dress that fit her like a tight sweater.