Sotah (48 page)

Bertha arrived within twenty minutes. She played with her bag. She squeezed her fingers together. “Look, I only found out this information myself a little while ago. Most of the time my boss doesn’t share this with me. But I told him the cops were already involved in this one, so he gave me what he had. Dina was running away from a bad marriage. He claims she was grateful to hide out in America. She has a little baby she left behind with the husband.”

A baby! The fleeting memory of the dark cloud that had passed over Dina’s face. “If you had any children …” “Why not relax and enjoy yourself?” And all this time, she’s been thinking of her baby, aching for it! A flash of perception suddenly illuminated Joan’s confusion. “Bertha, Dina didn’t come here willingly, did she?”

“I … well …”

“Bertha”—Joan stared into the woman’s frightened eyes—“she never would have left her child willingly. I don’t believe it …”

“There is some kind of dirty business going on. I don’t know what it is, or what the truth is. We get these very religious girls who come over from time to time. Very few of them seem happy to be here. I don’t know how the arrangements are made. Some very strange people are involved, that’s all. Will she be all right, Doctor?” Bertha asked anxiously.

Charles shrugged. The statistics on recovery from mental illness were not overly encouraging. And there was so little to go on. No family members to question, no background, the language barrier. And she’d be shipped upstate if there wasn’t some sign of improvement soon. “We can hope. Anyhow, thanks for coming.”

“Send her my love.” Bertha sighed, taking a silent, solemn vow to begin looking for another job.

“Please, when can I see her?” Joan pleaded.

He looked her over, considering. “What about right now?”

Joan took a deep breath when she got off the elevator and walked down the corridor. How could anyone stand it for minutes, let alone hours, days?

She saw the soft little head on the pillow, the sad, immobile features. She reached out and took Dina’s hand.

“I’ll get you out of here. I’ll take you home,” she whispered, caressing the childish hand.

The small fingers curled trustingly around hers. Joan looked down, choking back tears. Poor little kitten, with all those invisible bands around your neck. If we could just see them, just cut them loose …

Joan walked into her home and just stood still for a few moments, relishing the small blessings of her life, the things she always took for granted: the wonderful coolness of air-conditioning, the clean, sweet fragrance of a well-cared-for house and garden, the lovely quiet of a house with few inhabitants and many rooms. She felt as if she wanted to wash the hospital away like some filth accidentally stepped in. But she knew she couldn’t. Not while Dina was still there.

The children were in the den. The TV was on. She sat down next to Steven on the couch and took Suzy onto her lap. They were watching some movie about a small boy, about Steven’s age, who wished to be a grown-up and suddenly found his wish granted. Joan chuckled, enjoying the children’s laughter as the small boy-man got a job, found an apartment … But then a woman started coming on to him. She went up to his apartment … Joan felt the discomfort growing inside her. But it was a children’s movie! Surely the writers, the directors, the producers … but no! There he was, and it was clear what was going to happen, all the sexual innuendos …

She jumped up. “This is not appropriate for you!”

The yelling and screaming began. They were in the middle.

“You’re disgusting,” Steven screamed at her.

She looked at him, her eyes taking on a steely glimmer. “What did you say to me?”

“He said, ‘You’re disgusting,’” Suzy replied helpfully. “And you are, you are! You ruined our show!”

“Don’t you ever speak to me that way again. Not if you want to live. Do you understand me?” she said calmly, but with a strange intensity that shut them both up immediately. “And now you can both go to your rooms. I’m going to take a look at some of the other videos you’ve been watching.”

She put on
Batman
. It was all there. The parents being attacked and murdered. The burned corpse, the vat of acid. There was even a scene in a museum where works of art were vandalized to the accompaniment of music by Prince. And her son, her little boy, had seen this dozens of times. He thought it was funny.

She felt like weeping. Then she felt angry, betrayed. There was supposed to be someone out there who took care of these things! Something called a collective culture in which civilized people agreed to shield children in a civilized world from things that were bad for them. But that old agreement had broken down. It was each man for himself.

She went into the kitchen and took out a pair of pliers. Then she went into the den, unplugged the TV, and cut off the cord.

The idea struck Joan as soon as she opened her eyes the next morning. Friday, she thought, reaching for the phone.

“Dr Shulman? Joan Rosenshein. I have an idea …”

Joan returned in the late afternoon. She placed the candles by Dina’s bedside in their exquisite little holders. She placed the wig by her side and draped the long silk dress over the foot rail. On Dina’s bedside tray she arranged two little golden challah breads and a small bottle of wine. “Dina. It’s Friday. Here are all the things you need. Please get up,” Joan begged her. She touched her arm gently, shaking her. And then, with a strange, sure instinct: “Dina,
maideleh
, it’s time to get up.”

Charles took a step closer. He called to her softly: “
Zman lakoom, Dina. Od miat Shabbat. Heneh ha narot. Heneh hachalot. Bo-ee. Tasimi et ha pay ah.
” And then they waited, watching the back of her fragile, unmoving head. The minutes passed like hours. Nothing happened. Then, suddenly, she turned over. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her hands reached out for Joan, and she pressed her face into the older woman’s soft shoulder, hugging her.

“It’s all right, it’s all right, darling. It’s all right now …” Joan patted her helplessly.

What happened next would remain with Joan as one of her happiest memories and with Charles Shulman as one of his supreme moments of professional satisfaction. In a clear, sweet voice, Dina Gutman said: “I must get dressed before I light.” Then, turning to Charles, she said: “
Todah
.”

“
Bevakasha
,” he replied.

When she came out of the bathroom, she had changed into the clothes Joan had brought her, washed her face, combed her long blond wig. She looked like those fresh-faced Hasidic girls you saw all over Crown Heights or like the religious girls he had seen in Israel.

She lit the candles, closing her eyes, her lips murmuring softly. Her eyes were bright when she opened them. Alive, Joan thought with relief.

“Please, make kiddush for us over the wine,” she asked Charles, putting her arm around Joan’s waist and leaning against her shoulder.

Charles nodded, oddly apprehensive. He had not said a prayer for years, ever since his break with religion, the huge, bitter battle with his parents …

“But you must cover your head first,” she told him.

He looked around and found a napkin. He put it on his head, then lifted the wine. The Hebrew words came up painfully from his bowels, his chest. Yet there was an oddly pleasant nostalgia that accompanied them as well, like the smell of spicy cookies on a winter’s night.

He poured some wine off into her bedside cup, and she drank it. Then she got up again and washed her hands, reciting the blessing over the twin loaves. “You must wash, too,” she told them.

Joan watched her, her heart light. She had not only spoken, walked, eaten, and dressed, but, more important, she had related to those around her, assumed a connection between them that had even allowed her to boss them around. And she had done it all within the space of fifteen minutes!

“Now you get a double mitzvah. Not only for saying the blessings, but for getting me to say them. I haven’t for years,” Charles told Dina, smiling.

“For years?” She seemed amazed. “And hasn’t G-d punished you?”

He thought about it and shrugged. “My life has been good.”

“It could be better,” she said sadly, her eyes going from Joan’s face to his.

Joan hugged her, trying not to cry.

He nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps.”

AUGUST 14

The progress continues in therapy sessions with Dina. We have almost gotten past the first stage where she didn’t seem to acknowledge herself at all. She refused to communicate any feelings, any personal meanings. She’d say things like “You must never lie. It’s wrong to lie.” Or “Bad people deserve to be punished.”

This fixed life view, rigid and problemless, blocks her internal communication. She is afraid to look inside her own heart, to acknowledge the contradictions. Is it the average person’s failures she denies, or is there something more? I am trying to convey total acceptance to her, to make her feel that whatever she says, or thinks, or does, she will not lose my friendship, my approval. This is the hardest part, to win her trust. Joan continues to visit. The two have formed a significant personal bond that is important to her therapy. Dina trusts her, depends on her.

AUGUST 18

Progress. She told me today that she loves her father, and that her mother has died. She said something shocking. That she was glad her mother was dead, because what had happened would have killed her. She didn’t say what that event was. But I suspect it is pivotal. She continues to disown her feelings. “Why do you think you wound up here, in the hospital?” I asked her. Her response was: “I suppose it was the sins.”

She didn’t say: My sins. Or elaborate. It’s still being kept at arm’s length. She still cannot face it. I don’t know how to get over this hump.

AUGUST 20

She is really down. The question was, If you could have anything, what would it be? Her answer: “I want to die.” But then she immediately corrected herself. “I don’t deserve to live.”

I don’t think she is suicidal—that quick correction shows something else. Someone or something has trampled on her ego so powerfully that she is actually convinced being alive is more than she deserves. Would explain her initial symptoms, the total paralysis, the affectation of lifelessness.

AUGUST 21

She spoke of her parents today. Genuine affection, tremendous guilt. Her feelings seem to be thawing. She has begun to use “I.” “I” hated some of my teachers, she is willing to admit. “I envied the girls who went into the army.” Still, she is far from revealing her deepest feelings. She has given me a long list of things she wanted to do when she was growing up which were denied her, mostly by her own inhibitions, her internalized policeman rather than any outside force. Yet she hasn’t expressed any resentment toward the people or social conditions which circumscribed her life. “I wanted to, but I couldn’t,” is as far as she is willing to take it.

AUGUST 22

Tried an imaging technique. “I want you to think of the worst thing that has ever happened to you. I want you to imagine it, step by step. Go through all the motions, slowly,” I asked her.

She wept. “I can’t do it. Don’t make me.”

I told her to relax. To begin it again and to stop when it became too painful.

She refused. I didn’t pressure her.

AUGUST 23

She began to tell me about a distant relation, an ancestor called Sruyele. Apparently, the woman broke her engagement and was not only ostracized but cast shame over the family for generations.

“Do you think this is what Sruyele deserved?” I asked. I could see the question shocked her.

“I never thought about it before. It always seemed as if what happened had to happen.”

“Is it so terrible to change your mind? Is it so terrible to fall in love?”

“Yes.” She shook her head vigorously. “It is a terrible thing, the worst thing in the world.”

“Is that what you think?” I pressed her. I could see how hard it was for her to reply. “Not terrible in itself, but terrible because of how it hurts so many others.”

“But why should it hurt anyone if a young girl changes her mind and decides to share her life with someone else? Aside, of course, from the man she was engaged to. But even then, the man might understand. Might forgive.”

“I don’t know.”

“Could it be that choosing to feel hurt was their choice, their problem, and not Sruyele’s?”

“I don’t know,” she said again, but this time slowly, thoughtfully.

AUGUST 24

A breakthrough!! Small but significant. She said, “The idea of needing to please people—of having to do it—that’s always been a basic assumption (she used the Hebrew word) of my life. I don’t know. I never questioned it before. It’s as if I have no choice. I just have to.”

This is the first time I’ve seen her questioning, giving a fresh description of the past, a personal conclusion. It gives me hope.

AUGUST 25

I’ve decided she needs to get out. She’s very determined not to, but I’ve managed to get her to see it as medicine. I’ve suggested to Joan that she take her to the city—concerts, plays. Everything. The more the better.

At Lincoln Center, hearing Dvor
ák’s New World Symphony for the first time in her life, Dina felt a strange sensation. It wasn’t just her ears that were involved. The music seemed to enter through her chest, as if she were a string vibrating to some invisible bow. She closed her eyes and saw the calm majesty of vast new spaces to be explored. She heard the birds singing in snow-capped mountaintops and seemed to rise above them, looking down on a fresh, bright earth full of promise.