The World Outside (20 page)

“Soon.”

Then I hugged her and said good-bye.

CHAPTER 22

I
woke up late on Saturday morning. After saying the
Shema
, I went to the kitchen to look for Mama. I knew that Papa and Yossi would already be at synagogue and I wanted to speak to her alone.

I found her sitting at the kitchen table, studying the Chumash. When she saw me, she smiled.

“Good morning,” she said and closed her book.

“Good morning. Doing some learning?”

“Yes. I’ve also been thinking.”

“It’s too early to think,” I groaned.

“I’ve decided to write to the parents of Yankel Rosenbaum in Australia and of Gavin Cato, here in Crown Heights. I know what it’s like to lose a child, so maybe I can say something that will ease their suffering. I’ll write the letters as soon as Shabbos is over.” She waved toward the kitchen counter. “Help yourself. The bagels are fresh. I put them out just before Shabbos.”

I grabbed a bagel, eating it straight out of the bag it came in as I stood at the kitchen counter.

“Are you upset that Jade had to leave?” Mama asked.

“I am, but she promised to come back next summer. I’ll miss her.”

“You’ll still have Devorah Leah here.” She paused a moment. “And Faygie.”

“Faygie? We’re not talking any longer.”

“Her mother phoned me, Chanie. Faygie is very upset. She misses you.”

The truth was that I missed her too, but the trust was gone.

“She betrayed me, Mama.”

“She meant well.”

I scoffed. “She was jealous that I won the scholarship to the seminary.”

Mama shook her head. “That might have been part of it, but it wasn’t the complete reason. Faygie truly believed that she was helping you.” She looked at me seriously. “Why don’t you call her? You’ve been friends since you started school.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to hang out with her because her parents are
baal teshuvahs
.”

She sighed. “I said that, didn’t I? I said so many things. But losing my darling Moishe and your dear baba made me think really hard. I came to the conclusion that sometimes I’m just wrong. It isn’t easy for me to admit that—to
you or to myself.” She smiled sadly. “Faygie is a real Lubavitcher girl, and she’s sorry she hurt you. Call her!”

“I can’t, Mama. At least not now. Maybe I’ll call her in the future. I don’t know yet.”

She shook her head. “You’re stubborn.” She patted the seat of the chair next to her. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“We’re at the end of summer. That means school will start soon. Are you still set on going to Juilliard?”

She seemed so calm and matter-of-fact. If I hadn’t noticed that her knuckles were turning white, I would never have guessed how nervous she was.

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I’ve decided to write to Juilliard and decline the scholarship.”

“Why?” Her voice was a mere whisper.

“My place is with you and Papa. I belong here, in Crown Heights, with the Rebbe. I’ll go to the seminary like you want me to.”

“Why the sudden change of heart?”

“It’s not sudden. I’ve been feeling like this for a while. I didn’t tell you before because I wanted to be sure.” I chose my words carefully, so I could explain things to her as clearly as I could. “I know you and Papa miss Moishe so much. And now Baba is gone too. It made me realize that my place is here with my family.”

“But it’s your dream to sing!”

“Yes, and it’s been hard to let go of that dream. But then I think of all Baba went through for the sake of her beliefs—Auschwitz, the ghettos, the pogroms, coming here and starting life over again. Things I could not even imagine! And despite all her suffering, she never wavered in her loyalty to the Rebbe. She observed our traditions, never questioning, always believing. If I don’t live my life the same way, hers would have been in vain, and I can’t allow that to happen.” As I spoke, I felt a sense of belonging, a wholeness, a peace. And I knew, at last, that I had made the right decision.

“Are you sure?” Mama asked.

“I am.”

Tears ran down her face. She jumped out of her seat and pulled me out of mine to embrace me. “Baruch Hashem!” she cried. She held me tightly—as if she never wanted to let me go—until, finally, she pulled away.

“Chanie, there’s something you need to know.”

We sat down again, our fingers interlaced.

“I’ve never talked to you much about my past,” she said. “I didn’t want to burden you with painful memories.”

“All I know is that your parents died when you were very young.”

“Six years of age,” she said, nodding. “I was raised by my aunt, my mother’s sister. She did her best, but she
was cold by nature and a harsh critic of a young girl. The only comfort I ever had came from my study of our religious books. Whenever I felt sad and alone, I would study the Chumash. I would pore over the Rebbe’s writings and feel his wisdom surrounding me.”

I tightened my grasp.

She patted my hands. “And there was one other thing that kept me going: my music.”

“What do you mean?”

She straightened up in her chair. “I was like you. I had a glorious voice, but my aunt wouldn’t allow secular music in her home. All I could sing were niggunim, and only when nobody could hear me.” She paused for a moment, her eyes fixed on the table. “As you realize, it’s not enough after a while.”

I sighed. “I know it isn’t.”

“I discovered opera at the house of one of my friends. Her mother loved to listen to it. I fell in love with this kind of music too, and eventually I decided to become an opera singer.” She smiled bitterly. “But as you know, that’s not an option for women like us.”

She stood up and started to pace around the kitchen, stopping to straighten a canister here, wiping a spot on the counter there.

“My story is very much like yours. I met a man. It doesn’t matter how,” she said with her back to me. “I was very young, and he was a little older than I was. I left
Crown Heights for him, moved to the City and married him. At first, everything was wonderful, despite the wickedness of the world around me. We were happy. He hired a voice teacher for me, and I was filled with ambition. I wanted to become a famous singer. But as time passed, everything changed. Late at night, when nobody could hear me, I would cry, holding a pillow over my face so that my husband wouldn’t hear the sound of my tears.”

I stood up to kiss her cheek, something I wouldn’t have dared to do mere weeks ago. “Poor Mama! But why did you cry?”

“I cried because I missed all this so much!” She waved her hand vaguely, gesturing around the room. “I missed the Torah being the center of my life. I missed our traditions. I missed the Rebbe’s wise counsel. I learned to appreciate what I had so thoughtlessly thrown away.”

I was afraid even to breathe. I had the feeling that she had forgotten I was there.

Suddenly, she seemed to come back to herself. “I’m not saying that nothing bad ever happens to us here—the last few days have taught us nothing if not that. But when terrible things do happen, we know it’s all part of Hashem’s greater plan. That comforts me.” She wagged a finger at me. “Remember, Chanie, you must never question what Hashem has in store for us. You must follow the Rebbe’s instructions without argument. Do you understand?”

“I do. But, Mama, don’t you ever have doubts? Don’t you ever have questions you want answered?”

Her expression became severe. “I don’t have time for doubts. Asking questions is a waste of time. Reading the Chumash gives me all the answers I need.”

I sat there, wondering if I would ever be as certain in my beliefs as she was. How could I make my questions disappear? Did I even want to? I couldn’t decide.

“It’s a wicked world out there,” she said, pointing in the direction of the City. “It took a long time, but I finally realized that without my fellow Lubavitchers around me, I was like a fish out of water. The people in the City just think differently than we do.”

“But wasn’t it exciting to try new things? To taste new foods? To wear different clothes?” For a moment I imagined myself in tight-fitting blue jeans, but then I chased the dream away.

“Oh, it was interesting—of course!—but only for a short while. After the novelty wore off, everything began to unravel. I left my husband, came home and divorced him.” She smiled. “I met your father on the first
shidduch
date I ever went on. He married me, even though I was a divorced woman.”

“But if it’s so awful in the City, why did you always encourage the older kids in our family to go on outreach? They’re all over the world!”

“Because it’s what the Rebbe wants us to do. And
because I want the Messiah to come. Don’t forget, when we go on outreach, no matter where we are—at the subway station handing out Shabbos candles or running a Chabad House on a university campus thousands of miles away—we still have other Lubavitchers around us. People who think like we do. Who live the same lives we do. We remind each other of what is important. I never told your brothers and sisters my story—not even when I encouraged them to go as far as Australia and Argentina at the Rebbe’s bidding—but I felt I owed you the truth.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Mama.”

“Oh, but I do! When you were born, I was so filled with joy. You were so tiny and so perfect! And then there was poor Moishe. I cried and cried, but I knew that I must never question Hashem’s will. So I never asked why. I simply accepted it. I took my darling Moishe to the Rebbe and he blessed him. Your brother became the light of my life.”

“I always thought that you blamed me for Moishe’s problems because I took too long to be born.”

“Never! It was Hashem’s will. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Then why did you never smile at me or show me the affection you did Moishe?” The words caught in my throat.

She reached over and stroked my face. “Chanie, you’re so much like me. As you grew, I noticed the
resemblance between our temperaments. Of all my children, you were the most like me—the most stubborn.”

I stared at her.
Me, like Mama?
Baba had said the same thing.

“You seem surprised. Where do you think you got your stubborn streak? And your voice?” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “All I could do for my darling Moishe was make him comfortable. But you … well, that was a different story. I didn’t want you to go through the things that had happened to me, so I decided to make you strong. I decided that if I loved you silently, without showing you how I felt, you would learn to rely on your faith in Hashem for your happiness. Forgive me, but that’s exactly what I did.” She smiled slightly. “And I can honestly say that my plan worked. I was right.”

I thought of the many hurts her coldness had caused me. I thought of the times I had craved her arms but never felt them around me. I felt, in that moment, that the price of my strength was too high. But I didn’t have the heart to tell her that, so instead I asked, “Why do you never sing? I’m at my happiest when I sing! The music fills me up, makes me feel complete. I never want to lose that feeling.”

She sighed. “When I sing, I remember shattered dreams. I remember loneliness and desperation. It’s too painful for me to sing.”

I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Come, Mama, sing with me.” I began to hum one of Gilda’s arias from
Rigoletto
. After a moment, she joined in, her voice growing stronger with each passing moment until it was revealed in its rich glory. At the end of the song, she looked at me shyly.

“That was wonderful, Mama.”

“I haven’t felt like this in a long time.” She leaned closer. “I don’t want you to lose your voice like I lost mine. I will hire a teacher for you, here in Crown Heights. She’ll teach you classical opera and the music of our people. And one day you’ll be ready to perform niggunim for the women in our community. But never opera. And never for men. You must understand that.”

I nodded.
It won’t be Juilliard
, I said to myself,
but it’ll be something. Will it be enough?
I quickly pushed the question out of my mind.

“I’ll even take you to the opera with me,” she said with a smile.

“To
Rigoletto
, Mama? The music is wonderful, but there must be other operas with equally beautiful music. Why do you listen to
Rigoletto
over and over again?”

“Do you know the story of this opera?”

“I do.” I hung my head. “I looked it up in the library.”

“Then you know that the jester Rigoletto, for whom the opera is named, is the main character.”

I nodded.

“Rigoletto tries to save his daughter, Gilda, from the wickedness of the world around her, but he fails to protect her. I listen to this opera to remind myself not to be like the poor jester. To remind myself that unlike him, I have to keep you safe.”

I put my head on her shoulder and we sat in silence, each of us preoccupied by our own private thoughts.

CHAPTER 23