Jerusalem Maiden (23 page)

T
he world woke from the afternoon nap that passed the hottest hours of the day. At the sound of the ice wagon, Esther rushed out to the line of women, and minutes later lugged home her block of ice tied by a string that cut into her palm. There was no better luxury than having an icebox—her own icebox!—to keep dairy products and eggs fresh. The first time she had brought ice home, she was so excited she had kissed it, and her skin almost ripped off. She had never imagined that ice could burn. Now, chuckling at the memory, she slid the frozen load into its drawer in the icebox and rubbed her sore hand.

At five o'clock, when the British drank their afternoon tea or danced in cafés, Esther returned to the beach. The British officer had stationed himself south of his regular spot. His easel and stool were angled toward Jaffa's fortress seawall and the napkin-size fishermen's enclave north of it, marked by the nets hanging to dry. As she had done these past couple of weeks, Esther stopped a few meters behind him. She doubted he noticed her, another ultra-Orthodox woman in this Holy Land who, in spite of the heat, wore a long skirt and long sleeves and covered her head. She was so different from the refined British women she saw at the market in gauzy white dresses, carrying white lace parasols.

She sat on the sand, hugged her knees and shielded her eyes against the brightness of the sand and the reflection of the sun on the water. South, the shoreline reached all the way to Alexandria in Egypt. North, to Beirut in Lebanon. And here she was, a speck in God's dazzling universe, living halfway between. And she was blessed with the view of waves breaking on rocks alive with barnacles.

Using the palest pink and light brown, the officer's dainty brush dotted the canvas, painting the narrow strip of sand from the horizon to where he sat. Esther's finger drew in the sand, and she inhaled the faint fumes of turpentine and linseed oil carried by the breeze. The ache inside shot to her fingers.

Only the breeze on her face made her realize that her cheeks were wet. She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. Glancing up, she noticed that the officer had left his stool and was watching her from a few steps away.

“You're an artist,” he said in English.

An artist forbidden to paint. Esther lowered her gaze to her doodle in the sand. There was a large bird in flight she surely couldn't have drawn, small shells running along the spine and into the tail.

“Nice work,” he added when she didn't reply.

Her toes quickly passed through the sand to erase the bird. I'm an artist. The words banged in her head. I'm a Jerusalem maiden. A Jewess. A wife. A mother. An artist. A sister? An artist. An artist. An artist.

He stepped back to his canvas. Esther rose to her feet and retraced her route. From now on, she would keep to the waterline, avoiding the stretch of dune where the officer painted.

Five minutes later, at Malka's kiosk, she nursed the baby and ate two slices of cake with her lemonade. Malka no longer accepted payment.

Esther walked back to Ne've Tzedek, trying to bring order to the chaos of her thoughts. An artist. A wife. A mother. A sister? She had reread Hanna's letter. Poor, poor Hanna.
To him that is eager to give alms, the Lord provides the means,
proclaimed the Talmudic adage. Yet, she hadn't told Nathan about Hanna's request. Unlike her family in Jerusalem, Nathan's didn't squeeze dozens of people into one or two rooms. How would God provide the means? Accelerate the plan to build a larger home that would accommodate them all—including Nathan's sisters?

F
orty meters away from the road, the sea lay flat and gray. Hundreds of slimy jellyfish had washed ashore and shimmered like the bottoms of glass bottles. Esther wouldn't be able to walk barefoot at the water's edge, as the stings might poison her blood. She removed her sandals and trudged up to the deeper, dry sand, singed by the daylong sun.

When the British officer came into view, he shifted his head slightly. To her surprise, as she passed by he tipped his hat in acknowledgment and then bent to pick up something from the sand. He unfolded a second easel.

She froze.

His hand rose in half a wave.

It would be rude to ignore him, but other than some words to merchants, the last time Esther had spoken with a man who wasn't her husband had been Pierre Thibaux in her youth. Asher still didn't count. Careful to keep her bare feet hidden under the skirt, Esther stopped ten meters away from the officer. He put a small, canvas-like board on the easel and smiled.

Her feet dragged in the sand until she was near the easel, yet far enough from the man to preserve her sense of
tzni'ut
. She looked toward the sea and a shiver ran through her. The sea was God's creation; it contained something of Him.
Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of anything that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.

Yet while the sea was God's miracle, it wasn't His likeness. And just like the sky, water was shapeless. Neither could be a graven image—not the way a fish, a person, a mountain, a tree or a building were, in their finite shapes.

On the horizon, a flock of seagulls hovered over the fishermen's boats, the lines of their wings silhouetted like the alphabet. An idea blasted in Esther's head with such force she gasped. Calligraphy was permitted; it had filled her father's home in the form of cameos and framed talismans. The Hebrew letters were hers to write as she desired.

“Here.” The officer gestured toward his box, where an assortment of pencils, charcoal, crayons, pots of pigments and brushes was neatly arranged in three open drawers.

She picked up an aqua-colored pencil and began to draw tiny letters on the board. Like undulating lines of marching ants, the miniature letters formed the line of the nearest wave rising, rippling and crashing onto the shore. Esther smudged an azure chalk inside each letter, then drew another wave of diminutive letters behind the first. There were dozens of dazzling pastels in the box. When mixed, they created a new palette of light-resplendent colors. It would be a laborious task to fill the board with all these letters, but no less exacting and exhilarating than fine-stitching Dvora's dresses or painstakingly crocheting floor-length lace curtains.

When the sun's rays elongated over the western horizon, Esther sensed a movement at her side and turned to see the officer scrutinizing her work. At his nearness, she stepped away. He leaned closer, his nose almost to her canvas.

He finally straightened. “This is incredible,” he said in English.

Her heart sang. She hung her head. “Thank you, sir.”

“Your work is extraordinary,” he repeated.

She stifled her smile. “Thank you, sir.” She didn't wish to be rude. “Good evening,” she said, and walked away, leaving her board behind.

“
Shalom,
” he called after her.

H
er steps were lighter than they had been in years. Honey coursed through her veins. She didn't know how to contain her happiness. God had finally shown her the way back to art! She wanted to raise her arms and fly.
I found myself!
she wanted to shout.
It's me, Esther.
Thank you, Hashem, for giving me this insight.
She had passed the test He had presented her when casting her off to Jaffa and now He was rewarding her for all the minutes, hours, weeks and months of revering Him. These past nine years had been merely the corridor toward the pavilion of beauty that stretched as vast and far as the sea.

Back on the road, Esther began skipping on the asphalt as she hadn't done in years, but stopped after a few steps. Ample food and three cycles of pregnancies and breast-feeding had given her a full figure Nathan was proud of, for it proved his prosperity, but it now encumbered her ability to leap along with her heart.

She felt so complete that at home, she chanced grabbing Dvora and holding her close. Her daughter didn't give herself to the hug, but neither did she stiffen. Her thin shoulder bones jutted into the inside of Esther's arm. Esther allowed her hand to curve around the small head, and then to caress the silky black hair she combed every morning yet hadn't stroked in a while.

Dvora raised her head and looked up at her, her gaze tentative. Esther smiled down at her. Just then, Gershon came skidding down the corridor.

“Come here,” Esther called out to him, extending her other arm.

He flew by, and she caught only air. Dvora disengaged herself and dropped to the floor by her open book. “You only love him,” she stated. “Because he's a boy.”

“Not so!” Esther said, stepping to the window. Gershon tore out of the building and toward the street where several older boys kicked a ball. A horse-driven cart was charging. “Gershon!” Esther screamed. “Watch out!”

The coachman pulled at the reins in time, and started shouting at the boys.

Esther dashed down the stairs. “You mustn't leave the yard!” she yelled to Gershon when she reached the bottom, panting. “Never!”

She marched him upstairs, regretting robbing him of his playtime yet certain that she must discipline her son for his own safety. As soon as she settled Gershon in his room, she'd deal with Dvora's accusation. How well Esther understood what it felt like to be less valuable than her brother.

T
he window was open to let in the balmy night air, and the fragrance of percolating Turkish coffee hung in the kitchen. Esther still felt as if she had just awakened from a long night of sleep. All her senses, dormant for years, were alert. Her ears were attuned to the rhythmic hum of the sea. In front of her eyes, miniature Hebrew letters danced in formation.

Sitting on one of the three bentwood chairs in the kitchen, his leg folded under him, Nathan chewed slowly on a scallion, then bit into a chunk of salty white farmer cheese, his long fingers graceful. He had a way of looking stylish even in the informal setting of their kitchen; his open-collared shirt was barely wrinkled at the end of the day. By the stove, Esther cracked open an egg and searched its clear part for a red vein of fertilization that would render it impure. Finding it uncontaminated, she poured it into the hot oil, scraping the inside of the shell with her finger to catch the last drop. There was no better food to ensure good health than eggs. She broke three more and watched them sizzle until their edges turned crispy brown. Her stomach growled. Her hunger for fresh eggs would never be sated. She had eaten four for breakfast, then whatever had remained on the children's dinner plates, and would now have four more for her dinner with Nathan.

Then the thought that had been plaguing her for a month crept back into her mood. Poor, poor Hanna.
Charity outweighs all other religious precepts,
said the Talmud. Today, Esther had been again conferred with God's special gift of art. She must share the rest of her good fortune. Tonight, in bed after their
yi'chud
, she would speak to Nathan about Hanna.

She brought her plate to the table.

“You're smiling,” Nathan said.

“Life is good, blessed be He.” She dunked her buttered bread in the first of the eggs, finished it, and savored the crunchiness of the lacy edges before proceeding to the next. She buttered two more slices of bread and placed one on Nathan's plate.

He lifted a green pepper and examined it, nodding approval. “A Jewish pepper,” he said with a tinge of pride in his voice. A Zionist farmer had brought a bag of them to his store, and Esther was certain Nathan paid twice the asking price, admiring the spirit it had taken to turn a swamp into fertile soil. Cutting up the pepper, Nathan added, “It's our good fortune that living in Levantine is hard on the British wives.”

Esther sent him a questioning look. “Meaning?”

“They've depleted my stock. I must prepare for a purchasing trip.”

“You're going to Europe again?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Will you join me this time?”

“Nathan, it's a three-month trip.” Esther pointed to the children's room. “What would our
kinders
do without me?”

“We'll distribute them among my sisters.”

“They'll get lost among their children.” Abigail was the only one Esther would fully trust, but even this friend was already blessed with six children. Esther thought of Dvora's unquenched learning curiosity, of Gershon's wild running around, of her baby at her bosom. “Eliyahu's still breast-feeding.”

“He's two. That's when the others were weaned. Esther, you'll love Vienna and Paris. Come with me before we have any more children.”

How she wished to go! In the wild hills to the east, a jackal wooed the moon. Esther looked outside, unseeing. “It's been years since I've seen Mlle Thibaux,” she said. Her teacher had left in 1917 with the change in the French embassy's personnel. She had sailed to France from Jaffa, then merely a sandy bay where the passengers had to be carried on porters' backs to dinghies that only then transported them to the ship. Mlle Thibaux spent the day with Esther, then pregnant with Dvora. They had walked in the dusty paths of the market and sat on top of the old city wall to look down at the sheer drop to the teal-colored water, and for a little while Esther had forgotten that in Gaza battles were raging, and that just behind her, under the arched porticoes of Jaffa's main street, stores had been boarded up as the Ottomans exiled to Egypt all foreign-born Jews.

Since then, she and Mlle Thibaux had exchanged an occasional letter. Only once, about four years before, had Mlle Thibaux mentioned her son, telling Esther how delighted she was that Pierre had finally returned home to marry the daughter of a count in the South of France. The thought that Pierre had been in Jerusalem all these years and must have passed through Jaffa for his Mediterranean voyage had sent a lightning bolt through Esther.

She now pushed herself from the table. “I'm sorry. We can't just store our children in someone's home. They need more attention than your sisters can give them.”

Nathan sighed. “You're a good mother. One day we'll have our grand tour. I promise.” He smiled and pointed to the jar of herring she had marinated in rich cream and peppercorn. “May I have some of your delicious treat?”

T
he children fell asleep in their room. Esther lay under the covers, her nightgown wrapped around her ankles to ensure that no part of her legs would accidentally be exposed. Her blood rushed through her limbs, centering in the place only Nathan knew. How blessed she was to have a husband who was clean and pleasant. As Nathan retrieved his striped pajamas and hid to change behind the armoire's open door, Esther imagined the combinations of letters she could write as pictures, as endless as God's creations.

Nathan folded his spectacles, laid them on the vanity table and slid under the covers in the bed adjoining hers. She turned to face him. His hand reached toward the lamp at his bedside.

“Leave it on,” she whispered.

“What for?”

Instead of an answer, she touched his chest. He hesitated, then as if gathering courage from the dictated words, he recited, “
Your lips are like a crimson thread, and your mouth is lovely. Your cheeks are like halves of a pomegranate behind your veil.
” He inched closer and brought his lips to hers. They tasted like a sour apple from the baking soda powder with which he had rubbed his teeth. Her arms reached around his back, and she pulled him closer.

His lips lingered against hers as if he'd laid them down and then forgot about them. Surprising herself, she moved her tongue around his.

He snapped his head back. “Esther!”

Something inside her bore down, demanding. Her hands kneaded his back. She pressed against his body, seeking his hardness. Her breathing quickened.

He disengaged himself from her clasp, kneeled in front of her and fumbled with the hem of her nightgown. He closed his eyes as if seeking darkness where she wouldn't allow it. She shifted to help him lift her gown up and tuck a pillow under her. The touch of his fingers on her bare thighs had always been pleasant, but now it jolted her nerve endings. She yanked on her nightgown, slid it past her head and tossed it away. For the first time in their years together, she lay fully naked before him, with the lights on. Nathan paused and then, without looking at her, buried his face in her neck. His hand traveled along her side and cupped a breast. His warm, rapid breathing made her skin tingle. As he entered her, a new urgent craving spread through her stomach and she moaned, bucking her back to meet his body, gyrating her hips.

She heard her own panting when Nathan halted. His hand released her breast as if it were a dead fish. “What's the matter?” he asked.

“Don't stop,” she begged. Her body continued to arch against his as if possessed. “Don't stop.” She was so close to the opening of a tunnel that had light and water and space—

“Esther!”

A sudden storm shook the world, fell onto the sea, exploded its inky surface, then quivered and shattered the light into a million little jewels of gold and green. A spasm broke and spread downward in the sweetest pleasure she had ever felt. Esther heard her moan turn into a cry.

Nathan pulled away. His hand brushed against her clammy skin, and he retrieved it fast. He peeked at her sideways with a worried look. She twisted her head away, ashamed, and forced herself to stifle her panting. In the open armoire, on the top shelf, lay the red fez Nathan wore on the rare occasions he still traveled to Constantinople. She fixed her gaze on the black tassel—forever a reminder that she owed Naftali's life to her husband.