Jerusalem Maiden (22 page)

He meant well, but his generosity had a way of trying her patience. She softened her tone. “My Ima ran a one-room house for seven children with little help—and no electricity or running water—and she never complained.”

“So you complain about having too much? Hashem has sent us the British to pull us from the Dark Ages.” Nathan sat on the bed and removed his shoes to wash his feet before going to the synagogue. “I want to be able to entertain dignitaries in style. It's important not only for my business; the British are committed to giving us a homeland here. Our own Jewish state! There's work I can do for all Jews.”

“So much for waiting for the Messiah before building a Jewish country in the land of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.”

“The sages said,
If you're about to plant a tree and the Messiah suddenly arrives, you first finish planting the tree and only then go greet him,
” Nathan said. “Developing
Eretz Yisrael
is a mitzvah. Our ancestors were the first to understand that we must respect our land for our survival.”

Since the League of Nations had approved a map for a Jewish state two years earlier, the notion remained so implausible, Esther didn't think it was worth arguing about. But she had accompanied Nathan to homes of secular idealists intent on making the desert bloom, rebels who upheld the romantic notion of Jewish manual labor and talked about drying swamps to appropriate agricultural land. “Which ‘dignitaries' will you have in my house?” she asked. “Zionist women with bare arms who smoke and fight with men about politics?”

“Esther, even your Aba deals with people outside your insular community. His trips abroad opened his mind to educating his daughters, or you'd be as illiterate as other Me'ah She'arim women—”

“He didn't bring these ‘others' into our home.”

“In his wisdom, he married you off to one, for which I will forever be grateful.”

She bit her lip. Nathan didn't know that both of them had been tricked—that she had believed she was marrying Asher, and he had been sold devalued merchandise. She stared out the window. The small, red-roofed houses of Ne've Tzedek were unadorned, the plaster over the cinderblocks ravaged by the sea-salt-laden wind that carved out the eastern shore of the Mediterranean basin. She lived as far from the beauty of Jerusalem as from the setting sun.

When she said nothing, Nathan smiled. “On Shabbat, we'll stroll along Rothschild Boulevard. When the saplings grow into trees, they'll touch one another and cast shade many kilometers long.”

She couldn't help smiling. “You're a dreamer.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Her
nidah
days were supposed to be their time to talk. Instead, they bickered without the comfort of later touching in the dark.

W
hen Nathan returned from the synagogue, she set an omelet and a bowl of yoghurt in front of him. Remorseful over their argument, she said, “If I must move, can it be to my own house with a vegetable garden?” She would fill half of it with flowers, useless but for their beauty.

“That you'll have, my Queen Esther. My sisters—”

“Can't we discuss anything without bringing them in?” In Esther's renewed agitation, her hand knocked over a porcelain bowl. It rolled on its side on the table and split down the middle like a dry oyster. “Oh, no. I'm sorry.” She stroked the pastel-colored flowers painted inside. “What a waste.”

“I'll get you another bowl.”

“I loved this one.”

Nathan gathered the two sections. “I'll piece them back together.” He finished eating, then moved to the side of the table, where he spread glue along the crack of one piece.

While his long fingers carefully pressed and held the two sections together, Esther emptied a cloth pouch of rice at the other end of the table and started hunting for blemished grains and tiny stones. She heard Nathan's breathing as he waited for the glue to dry. A night fowl whistled outside.

After a while, Nathan gently laid the bowl upside down. “Only you and I will know about the imperfection.”

She smiled. “You can't see the line. Thank you. I'll cherish it more now.”

Behind his spectacles, Nathan's eyes glinted with his usual adoration. “Sometimes it's so easy to make you happy, my Queen Esther,” he said. “Sometimes it's impossible.”

From the children's room came sounds of play. Dvora was keeping her brothers up. She must ignore this infraction, Esther decided, to avoid scolding Dvora. Instead, her eyes scanned the rice, her fingers sifting quickly. She should be grateful for all of God's blessings. It was wrong of her not to appreciate the good fortune He had bestowed upon her. Yet why couldn't her heart follow her own counsel?

“About my sisters,” Nathan ventured again.

“Again? Must we live with them in our belly button?”

“I want to give you your own home. You deserve it.” He lowered his head. “But we don't choose family. I'll build us a separate entrance.”

In her mind's eye, the piles of white rice she had been sorting for years and would continue to sort all her days kept growing, filling up the room and drowning her.

My dear sister Esther:

I hope this letter finds you and your family in good health. Hashem hasn't been as generous with me as He has with you and Miriam.

A grave difficulty has come my way. Since in my eight years of marriage Hashem has not blessed my womb, the rabbi requested that my husband divorce me and marry another woman so he could fulfill the
mitzvah
of procreation. After years at Aba's table, my husband was ordered to immediately move to the yeshiva until the divorce is finalized in a day or two. Next month, he'll wed a healthy girl of fourteen. It pains him to see my suffering, but he must do as Hashem has decreed.

As much as I try to be understanding about it, I cry. For years I've cried at Rachel's Tomb for the Barren Mother to save me. Now I cry because my life is unbearably hopeless. I don't know where I can plead for pity. And my suffering will grow before autumn, when my husband's new wife will surely be showing off her swollen stomach.

Esther's hand covered her mouth. Poor Hanna. All she had ever wanted was to be a wife and a mother.

My bed is empty, and my heart is a tombstone. With the divorce, I'm losing my last hope that, like Sarah and Rachel—and even like my biblical namesake—my womb could one day be blessed. Every nook in this house is a reminder of happy times when my scholarly husband bestowed honor upon me. I am now reduced to bearing Moishe's taunting and Aba's disapproval, for I have let him down by losing the eeluy who graced this family. Avram's wife, Hashem forgive me for saying it, is spiteful and all too eager to take my place as the most important woman in this family. It matters not that Avram, as scholarly as he is, is no match for my husband's wisdom in the Torah.

My torment is greater than I can express.

I know I wronged you with my hardening of heart. Hashem has punished me for my arrogance. I beg for your forgiveness.

If you and your esteemed merchant husband can remember the honor I've brought you until now and find it in your hearts to repay me by taking me in, I promise to be worthy of my keep. I don't eat much and all I need is a mattress in the corner of the kitchen where I can cry at night. Now that I will never have children, the least I can hope for is to help you in the upbringing of my niece and my nephews, who, with Hashem's blessing, will soon be joined by more boys.

Your faithful sister, Hanna

Poor, poor Hanna. Yet, along with the pity a worm of anger crawled in the darkness where Esther's memories hibernated. Why did Hanna add that part about owing her? Esther would need to ruminate about the request, and what she could offer without offending Nathan. She placed the letter in the envelope and locked it in her side of the armoire, where she kept chocolate bars and gifts from Nathan: a bracelet of Spanish gold relief, a pearl necklace and earrings. She tucked the key in her corset; claiming her own space had been the first unexpected pleasure these past nine years in Jaffa. Poor Hanna didn't even have that.

S
tanding on a ladder, Esther feather-dusted the outside of another book and handed it to Dvora. “Check each page for breadcrumbs,” she said. The weeks of Passover preparations—now joyful tasks in her own home rather than the endless labor she recalled from her childhood—culminated in her delight in the final result of viewing her sparkling Seder table. The decreed cleaning, attacking every object, corner and garment until no speck of errant unleavened flour would contaminate the holiday made commemorating the Jews' exodus from Egypt more festive. Sharing the work with her daughter made the moments special, theirs alone.

“Why would crumbs get into the pages?” Dvora asked.

Esther laughed. “In my Aba's house, my brothers studied from the holy books without stopping for meals. Checking everywhere—even in each pocket—is a tradition.”

“Aba only reads these books on Shabbat,” Dvora said, but complied with the same devotion she gave everything that had to do with Nathan.

For a while, Esther dusted and Dvora wiped each page. “I remember the last time my Ima was able to do a proper Passover cleaning,” Esther said. “Her eyes shone with joy as she waxed the doors and polished the iron hinges with fresh lemon.”

“Tell me again why you named me after her,” Dvora said.

Esther stepped down from the ladder. “She was a Woman of Valor—an industrious, great
tzadeket
who helped the poor. She was a virtuous woman who knew she would bring salvation to our people by bearing many children.” Esther accepted a clean book from her daughter and tucked it on the shelf. If only Dvora would be this responsive all other times.

“Were you poor? Your Aba's house smells horrible.”

Esther dipped a rag in wax, then got down on all fours to buff the floor under the bookcase. “Everyone was poor in Jerusalem. The Turks were bad rulers. Water distribution was unreliable. There was very little food, or anything else.” The words labored out between sweeps of her arm. “Yet my mother always found something to give to the needy. And my father always invited a poor family to our table, even when we were starving. My Ima just would eat less.” Esther sat on her haunches to catch her breath. “We shall do that this year, invite a poor family to join us.”

“I don't want beggars here. They're dirty and stinking.”

“Dvora, it's a mitzvah to share our bounty. Do you know the story about the emissary from Hashem who walked around on Seder night to check who truly observed the spirit of the holy day? It wasn't the rich man's family that invited him to join their table, but rather the poorest one. Hashem rewarded them with rubies and good health.”

Dvora wiped the same book cover again. “I like cleaning Aba's books.”

“One day you'll remember these rituals with fondness.” How was Hanna faring now, readying for a Passover without a husband? Esther sighed, and said to Dvora, “Let's move the sofa.”

Dvora's one long brow arched. “Will Hashem be looking under there?”

“Of course. He sees everything.” Esther tugged at the sofa leg. “The mitzvah of Passover cleaning is to not leave one centimeter untouched.”

Dvora turned and went to the children's room, leaving Esther holding on to the sofa leg and stung by her daughter's unpredictable mood change.

Moments later, Eliyahu screamed. When Esther rushed to his crib, his arm sported a red blotch from a recent pinch. Dvora was lying on the floor, reading. Esther pulled her up by the braid and slapped her face. Dvora's quivering lips tightened, but she didn't cry.

“You are as cruel as a witch,” Esther sputtered.

Dvora remained standing in the same spot while Esther picked up the baby, shushing and kissing him.

“I want to read Aunt Hanna's letter,” Dvora said.

“As a reward for hurting your brother?” Seething, Esther carried Eliyahu out.

She wished she could offer Hanna to come live with them forever. If only Hanna had made it easier, not asking Esther to “repay for the honor,” nor hinted at Nathan's lower merchant status. Esther sighed, then prayed.
Praise Hashem. Please guide my heart toward benevolence and charity.

The next morning, as soon as the sun rose above the hills, she made Dvora help her spread the bedding over the veranda's railing to soak up the sun. But as they worked together, her daughter's silence hung heavy between them.

After Dvora and Gershon left for school, Esther lined the shelves of the armoire with clean lace-trimmed linen. Her irritation subsided, and the satisfaction of bringing spirituality to the world around her took over. “
Chiri bim, chiri bom, chiri biri, bom-bom-bom,
” she hummed the Hassidic melody that would have scandalized Hanna. “
Chiri biri-biri-biri-biri-bom-bom.
” She put Eliyahu down for a nap and made herself a glass of “mud,” Turkish coffee with the thick grounds filling half the glass, and added three spoonfuls of sugar. Then she sat in her veranda shaded by the date palm. The coffee tasted bitter, yet sweet. Surrounded by her collections of potted flowers, herbs and cacti, she thought about the tranquil teatime and the silver servings Mlle Thibaux had introduced her to, and which she had never imagined she would one day own. She said a blessing, “
Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, Who nourishes the whole world in goodness with grace, kindness and compassion.
”

From the terrace below came the chattering and laughter of three of her sisters-in-law, taking their break together. Being excluded had long become a fact in Esther's life; even the Purim costumes she'd sewn for all their children had failed to endear her. Yes, it would be easier had she and Nathan lived apart from them. Esther sipped her coffee, pondering her dilemma. How could she ask him to bring her sister into their home when she demanded he distance her from his own sisters?