Jerusalem Maiden (27 page)

Esther turned around to examine herself. Nathan might be displeased with her slimmer figure, but the empire dress, gathered under her chest, streamed down beautifully. It was made of white fabric that was soft, cool and rich. It had a shoulder-wide collar and two layers of skirts, the shorter one on the outside, the longer one reaching her ankles. And how could she object to the simple black trim on the lapels and the two hems that finished the dress with unadorned elegance?

Raysel began haggling over the price, but Esther pulled her aside. “I can sew this dress at a quarter the cost in one day if I can use your sewing machine.” But she consented to the parasol Raysel insisted she carry, and a new string purse.

Next, at a second-floor atelier with soot-covered windows, a corset maker tsk-tsked over Esther's sorry-looking contraption of crossing fabrics, reinforcement ribbons, straps, hooks and laces, but promised to fashion for the visitor from
Eretz Yisrael
a new one ahead of the queue.

Esther and Raysel were barely down the flight of stairs of rotting timber when Raysel said, “Now for your head. The
tichel
has to go.”

Esther almost tripped. “No,” she said. “With
tzni'ut
, God expects me to set an example to secular Jews.”

“In Jaffa, maybe.” Raysel sighed and touched her own wig, too flamboyant even for a Hassidic woman. “At least try a wig to see how it looks. For
tzni'ut
, you'll cover it with a hat.”

She would wear the wig only on special occasions, Esther decided as she ordered one that resembled the dark, wavy hair it should hide, except that its flat curls closely followed the contours of her scalp in the current fashion. She anticipated a pang of guilt at her shallow vanity, yet didn't feel one even when she purchased a cloche at the millinery store, a bell-shaped hat that tilted low past the wig to obstruct a side view of her face. Nor did she feel one at a hovel that served as a shoemaker's shop, where she ordered a pair of shoes of the softest leather and requested that he add a white strap, like Mlle Thibaux's shoes so many years ago. Minutes later, she entered a fabric store smelling of dye, dusty lint, and the frying fumes of the restaurant next door. After being assured that the process of mixing the yarns in the cloth was according to the Torah's decree, Esther bought the finest white cotton, thread, chalk, thimble, buttons, thick paper to cut the design, a black trim ribbon, and underarm pads to protect the dress from perspiration.

She wasn't taking a vacation from God's path, she told herself, because austerity hadn't been His decree, but the rabbis' interpretation for suffering in Jerusalem in order to hasten the Messiah's arrival. It was no longer required of her.

At the final shopping stop, a woman sold gloves made of kosher leather out of her kitchen. The calf had been slaughtered under religious supervision, Raysel explained. These inexpensive gloves were department store “seconds” with invisible imperfections.

“What's a department store?” Esther asked.

“A place where the
goyim
pay three times what you pay here.”

“Whoever heard of wearing gloves in the heat of summer?”

The seller examined the backs of Esther's hands. “That's why your hands are so old.”

Esther looked down. Her hands told the story of her life, as her mother's had and her grandmother's had before her. The short nails and wrinkled skin represented all that God had ever designed for her. His ordinances had always led to the use of her hands: dip them in harsh soap, pluck spiky chicken feathers, scrub wet laundry, push a sharp needle in stubborn fabric. Wash, chop, buff, wring, lug, peel, knead, dice, sew, wipe, knit, scour. As she paid for a pair of cream-colored calfskin gloves, Esther thought how symbolic it was that now that she had traveled away from her family she would cover her hands with gloves.

Walking in the now familiar alleys of Le Marais, Esther passed by the
mikveh
and hesitated. She handed Raysel her packages. Even if this ritual was only mandated for men—she was obligated to dip only after her monthly flow, before she was permitted to her husband—the dipping would appropriately demarcate her transformed self, less rigid, more accepting, yet as revering God as ever.

In the
mikveh
, she disrobed in air warmed by steam and naked bodies. Using the tip of a knife, the attendant cleaned under the nails of Esther's hands and feet, and Esther climbed down the steps into a one-person-sized pool. Three times she submerged herself to release any impure air bubbles caught in her hair. As she said her prayer, she connected with the generations of Jewish women who, in spite of persecution and strife, had dipped right at this spot. Just now, millions of Jewish women around the world still engaged in the same act of purification. As far as her Me'ah She'arim
klal
was concerned, most Diaspora Jews were “others,” as good as
goyim
. Now, grasping their struggles to hold on to their traditions, she realized how much more complicated their choices were.

Back in her room, Esther gazed at her Picasso. Hopefully, Nathan would like it as much as she did. The woman's hair was gathered in the back with no definition, as if covered by a
tichel
. The boy was painted in red, except for his not-yet-finished face, and he reminded her of Gershon, always pulling away in his eagerness to run free. Why was the woman in the painting turning her head away from the sea, God's astonishing creation? Because she was following her boy. Motherhood was the whole point of living. That was the essence of being a Jewish woman—

This vacation was only a sojourn from her destiny. Summer would be over soon enough, and then she would be back with her family, Esther told herself as she hung the painting from the slanted ceiling above her bed. She would see it when she opened her eyes every morning.

She unrolled the soft white cloth on her bed and arranged it to look like a dress, with the black trim along the hem, then retrieved the pearl necklace she had brought from home. They looked perfect together. When Nathan arrived, he would be pleased that at long last she had agreed to let go of the poverty of Jerusalem. She put the pearls against her lip to feel their cool smoothness. At twenty-four, alone in Paris and away from her home and children, she felt more feminine than she ever had during the cycles of her unwanted pregnancies and breast-feeding.

N
athan's first letter finally arrived at the bank:

My beloved wife Esther:

I hope this letter finds you safe and in good spirits. As always, I attend early morning services at the local synagogue and I join a study group every evening to dissect a passage of Talmud or discuss the weekly Torah portion. This serving of spiritual enlightenment softens my worry over your being alone in a foreign land. During the day, I am busy checking new merchandise. It will take me yet another month to supervise the packing and the shipping.

Do not hasten to meet me here. Europe is still reeling from the ravages of the war. Last week, a train from Salzburg was intercepted by bandits. Only Hashem knows what might befall an unchaperoned woman. Promise me that you will not undertake any more irresponsible voyaging. Although I am late in meeting you as I had hoped, I will join you on my way back to Marseille so you will not travel home alone. Managing the house and the children must be too much for your inexperienced sister, but Gaytle assured me in a telegram that she's helping and that our children are doing well.

Please write and let me know how you spend your days productively.

Your devoted husband,

Nathan Bloomenthal

There wouldn't be any grand tour. If only she had journeyed directly to Vienna from Marseille, she would be traveling with him now, seeing the rest of Europe. She would have met Asher, even heard one of his concerts. But how could she regret these past three weeks in Paris?

Esther stepped out of the bank to the bustle of Le Marais preparing for the Shabbat. Her fingers felt the itch for the cleaning and cooking and setting the table with all its glory. That morning, she had asked Raysel's permission to bake a kugel she could take to the Horovitzes', but Raysel quashed her zest; cooking was work for the maids, not for guests, and anyway, all baking was done at the baker's since the kitchen had no oven.

Esther stopped at a Judaica store. Since her sea crossing, she had been lighting her Shabbat candles fixed in their own wax onto the top of her valise. The additional month in Paris Nathan's letter had given her justified a more settled approach. She pointed at a pair of silver candleholders. “I'll take these.”

Shabbat also deserved new clothes, Esther thought back in her room, as she put on her new corset, white dress and buttoned shoes. Tonight, for the first time, the Horovitzes would see her as the cultured woman of good breeding that she was.

In an hour, the Horovitzes' maiden daughter would come by to summon her for services. Esther liked the crowded Ashkenazi synagogue where Yiddish mixed with French, Russian and Polish. The women's section at the back was as remote and as busy as the ones in Jerusalem and Jaffa, and just as noisy with the fussing and laughter of infants and children. The congregation, though, was comprised of Hassids who embraced her warmly. Their prayers were the same as the Haredi's, their traditions identical, even if the rituals of the men's music and dance lacked the uncompromising strictness she had known in her childhood. She and the Hassids shared a deep-rooted history that superseded decades-old disagreements over interpretations of decrees.

She snapped on her pearl necklace and adjusted the new wig, then peeked at herself in the mottled mirror that hung over her washbowl. Her new eyebrows, plucked thin and arched by Raysel, softened her face; her new European look, she thought, again surprised at the absence of a pang of
tzni'ut
.

Her limited view of the sky wouldn't inform Esther when the first three stars announced the Shabbat. However, the ringing bells of the Blancs Manteaux convent indicated that there was time to write another letter to her children before it would be considered labor. She placed a clean sheet of paper on the windowsill, took out the inkwell, and dipped the feather's tip. The mail to
Eretz Yisrael
took a month. By now, all her letters must be bundled up in the same box in the bowels of the same ship to soon reach her home at the same time. She had yet to receive a letter from Hanna. As much as she craved news of the children, she dreaded reading how well her sister was managing.

Esther addressed this letter to Abigail, asking her to give Eliyahu hugs and kisses while showing him the photograph on their buffet. How much would his memory of her dim before her return? Raising Gershon had taught her that a mother's love only reflected the needs of the mother, not of the child's. A child loved whoever chanced to be there when he opened his eyes in the morning and whoever provided for him all day long. Hanna was better suited for the task.

The thought brought on what had become a familiar emotion. Envy. No. It was jealousy.

Esther lit her candles, and the glow of the small flames bathed the tiny attic room. She covered her head with a lace prayer scarf and put her hands over her face to pray for all Jews, even those “others” too ignorant of God's omnipotence. Then she prayed for her children's health and for Nathan's safety. To be sure, she repeated her children's names, bringing the small, sweet features to her mind, aching for them. Why was it that when surrounded by her family, she missed something else, and when that something else stretched before her, she missed her family? Friday evening was a time when any marital ill-thoughts were pushed aside in favor of the pure and holy. Tonight, Nathan would think of her, too.

A pounding on the door startled her. “Come down! Quick!”

Esther opened the door to see the flushed face of the
Shabbat
shiksa
, the weekend maid who replaced the Jewish staff for the ordained sacred day of rest.

“The Horovitzes are early.” Esther slid on her gloves and picked up her new purse. Her heart sang as she took a last glance at the mysterious woman in the mirror.

Esther almost vaulted over the last few stairs at the sight of Mlle Thibaux.

“
Ma chérie.
” Mlle Thibaux opened her arms. “I was in the South of France visiting my grandson. I came as soon as I received your letter!”

The rest of her words were drowned out in Esther's hug. Mlle Thibaux had returned especially for her! Esther felt like a child who'd found her mother. “I thought I'd never see you again,” she mumbled as she released herself to accept the double-cheek kisses.

“You're so pretty. Let me look at you!” Mlle Thibaux held her at arm's length. “I never imagined you looking so
Parisienne
!”

Esther blushed and giggled to cover her embarrassment. “
Très chic?
” She glanced around the room as if Pierre were waiting to reveal himself. Instead, Raysel and a dozen pairs of smiling eyes stared at her, admiring.

In her head, she said,
I look dreadful. Like a corpse
, in order to avert the evil eye.

D
elacroix's giant panels decorate churches and palaces all around the city.” Mlle Thibaux motioned to Esther to come closer. “Notice his technique? Rather than blend colors, he abutted them, so at a distance the composition looks like a unified whole.”

A group of students stationed themselves in front of the mural, sketching it with charcoal or pencil. Esther stepped back to give them room, but her throat constricted as she noticed a girl of about seventeen. The girl's shiny black braid and her modest clothes indicated she was a Jewess. Probably Hassidic, the girl was permitted to break God's Second Commandment. And instead of being married now, she studied at an arts institute.

“You can do it, too,” Mlle Thibaux said softly. “Tomorrow we'll bring paper and charcoal.”

Esther shook her head and strode away. For more than a week, in preparation for studying the art of the Louvre, Mlle Thibaux had led her through scores of art collections scattered about the city. The sheer abundance of canvases on walls and frescoes on ceilings left Esther in awe. But studying them was as far as she would go.

When her teacher caught up with her, Esther said, “I'm afraid if I began, it would be like starting a fire in a field of dry thistles.”

“You haven't drawn or painted since age twelve?”

“A couple of months ago I began drawing miniature letters of the Hebrew alphabet.” Would the British officer be at the beach when she returned? With Hanna glued to her heels, she had never managed a good-bye. “It's like needlepoint. It takes millions of them to make an image.” Esther smiled. “It came out nicely.”

Laughter crinkled the corners of Mlle Thibaux's eyes. “That art form has a name. Micrography.”

Esther stared at her. “You mean I didn't invent it?”

“You did. Except that others have, too.” Mlle Thibaux shook her head. “You're still so isolated, even from the art of your own people.”

Esther shrugged. “Nathan talked about plans for a museum in Tel Aviv.”

“There are quite a few Jewish artists in the École de Paris, which is what we call the loose gathering of productive artists in this city. But they don't paint Jewish themes. Why don't you paint Le Marais in micrography?”

“The Hebrew letters are too holy to desecrate in Diaspora.”

Mlle Thibaux took out a Spanish fan and flipped it open. She regarded Esther. “You'll find your way.” Her tone changed. “I'm thirsty. Let's sit somewhere interesting and watch people.”

Finally, she'd be sitting in a café. Until now, Esther had parted from Mlle Thibaux after their morning tour, as her teacher needed to rest before going out in the evening. “My benefactor now lives in Argentina, but provided me with a generous stipend to enjoy Parisian life,” Mlle Thibaux had explained, and Esther studied her stylish blue-and-pink striped dress with long, ruffled cuffs that failed to disguise that her teacher's waist was no longer svelte. Esther had felt the sadness of a discarded woman. Today, at the café, she decided, she would ask about Pierre and his family.

They rode in a carriage along a wide boulevard, and Mlle Thibaux pointed to the top floors of buildings. “In these elegant boulevards on the right side of the Seine, the top floors that are harder to climb are reserved for servants. They have tiny windows.” When they reached Montparnasse, again she drew Esther's attention to the top floors. “What do you see here?”

“Large, tall windows,” Esther replied, thinking of her own little coop under the rafters. “No servant quarters?”

“The high-ceilinged ateliers are located on the top floor for the unobstructed light. Painters and sculptors have been moving here to escape the high rents of Montmartre and to follow their patrons who are finding the Latin Quarter nearby so charming.”

At a café on Boulevard Saint-Germain, Mlle Thibaux commandeered a table on the sidewalk with a view of the intersection. Her eyes danced as she took in the people around her. Esther gazed at the top floors of the buildings across the street, hoping to catch the silhouette of an artist in his window.

“This spot became popular after the proprietor of the café across the street refused to allow a woman to sit down without a hat and to smoke. Now modern women patronize this one so he'll see the business he's missing.” Mlle Thibaux laughed and drew a cigarette out of a gold case studded with semiprecious stones.

Out of nowhere, two men sprinted over with lit matches. Mlle Thibaux smiled at both gentlemen, then accepted the light from the gray-haired one. In spite of the streaks of silver in her coiffure and the miniscule crinkles etched on her cheeks, she was still beautiful, and Esther saw her allure reflecting in the spark in the man's eyes as he slipped the matchbox back into his pocket. He brought Mlle Thibaux's free hand to his lips. “
Ma chère
Hortense Thibaux,” he said, “May I call upon you?”

She tilted her head in a coquettish way. “Tomorrow at five?”

Esther sat frozen, uncertain of what to make of the brazen behavior. The hairnet beneath her wig and the snug hat over it were too tight. There was so much to get accustomed to.

Mlle Thibaux ordered coffee and a cake for herself. All around them, people were watching other people, men inspecting women and women inspecting men from head to toe with no compunctions. When passing the dozens of cafés in her excursions, Esther had received fleeting attention before being dismissed for her curious, poor garb. Now, in her elegant attire, she was being observed in a new way. The eyes of the men at the adjoining tables weren't hungry like Arabs' as much as appreciative. Though this new inquisitiveness made her want to slouch low in her seat, she kept her back erect, ladylike. This was Paris. She was part of that romantic picture on Mlle Thibaux's pencil box.

As they chatted about the paintings they had seen that morning, Esther opened her mouth to ask about Pierre, then halted. It would be impolite to confront Mlle Thibaux with a subject she was avoiding.

Holding the fork in her left hand, her pinky extended, Mlle Thibaux brought a piece of cake to her lips. She let out a short purr of pleasure.

Esther supported her chin with her hand. “I still remember the almond cake you offered me the first time I came to your home. I have never stopped craving that one, even though I've filled my belly with many cakes since then.”

“It takes enormous will to fend off the temptations of Parisian non-kosher drinks and baked goods,” Mlle Thibaux said. “Your resolve is astounding.”

Esther shrugged. “I no longer keep kosher because Hashem watches over me, but because that's who I am.” Her finger doodled on the cold sweat of the iced water glass from which she wouldn't drink. “I mean, His spirit comes from within me.”

“I envy you the strength of your beliefs. For me, spirituality is merely visual, tangible—not internal like yours,” Mlle Thibaux said. “In Jerusalem I saw it etched in stone, and in Paris I see it in glasswork and canvas.”

The real temptation, Esther thought, wasn't the food. Her resolve not to create wasn't as sound as she pretended it to be.