Immodest Page 2

  I lived in a city that was not far from the sea. Walking quickly, you could reach the beach in twenty minutes. Along the shore were tall, beautiful residential towers, and among them were one-story houses facing the sea. I lived further inland in an area with old neglected four-story houses. If a nonreligious person would have come to our neighborhood on a holiday, he would surely have thought that he had landed on another planet. We were different in our dress, in the posters hanging on poles along the sidewalk, in the products sold in the neighborhood grocery store. In just about everything.

  I remember how one Purim I was walking around outside with my father. Out of the blue, he noticed two women wearing jeans and tank tops. It was a very hot day. My father, who was still holding my hand, turned his head the other way. That’s how it always was. Fearing that a man’s gaze would meet a woman’s gaze, and provoke unworthy thoughts, men would turn away from the sight of women.

  In front of our house was a large yard where we ran around in our childhood without fear of passing cars. Behind the house, across the street, a few minutes’ walk away, was a field next to an industrial zone. The field served as a garbage dump, and the business owners who operated around it tossed their scraps into it. No one complained about the mess, and the piles of trash multiplied. It was in this filth that I found comfort. I knew that no one would come there and turned it into my own. In one of the corners of the field there was a small mound that I love to sit on and look out from, forward into the nothingness, and to the side, to the small businesses that looked like matchboxes standing one right next to the other. I loved that limited world. I could put my arms around it and feel as if I were embracing something that belonged only to me. It was a wonderful sensation, and the only one where I really felt like myself. A feeling that I had something that no one could touch or take a piece of. The junk-strewn field was like a kingdom for me. I accepted with love the chrysanthemums and dandelions that grew haphazardly, I loved the abandonment, and blessed the indifference that people had for that place. I admired it for managing to overcome in its yellow-spotted beauty the objects discarded into it so casually.

  One day, I went to that place. It was a spring day. Neither hot nor cold. The sky above me gathered the field up to it and wrapped it in a soothing blue. An almost imperceptible breeze moved the tips of the stalks, and they nodded, first to the right, then to the left. I felt the movement in front of me like a silk sheet being shaken out. I straightened my arms and the field tickled my palms. I closed my eyes and felt that I too was being wrapped up and hugged by the sky. Suddenly, an unfamiliar noise broke the calm. My closed eyes refused to open. My body was warm from the thought that someone there loved me, taking me close to him without judgment. I didn’t want to pull myself out of the so realistic feeling, but the beats that penetrated my consciousness became stubborn and rhythmic. “Takh, takh, takh...” a pause, and again. “Takh, takh, takh...” I could turn the beats into music playing in my head, but now there was a human voice. Someone shouted and someone else answered. And then someone shouted out an instruction and someone else objected, and this happened over and over. A fragmented conversation, incomprehensible. A nonviolent duel of words. I opened my eyes and looked toward the industrial area. Dark heads raced around this way and that. The grating of an electric saw pierced the tranquility, and metal panels were unloaded from the back of a truck. I got up reluctantly from my mound and looked at the activity taking place just under my nose. I quickly understood that another enterprise was joining the row of businesses. More garbage, was the first thought that went through my mind. I shook out my skirt and straightened the pleats. I took a quick look at the newborn business and left my refuge.

  As soon as I stepped foot in the house, I knew something had happened. My father was sitting in the living room, and my mother came over to greet me. Her fingers pressed the apron tied around her waist, and she looked down as soon as her eyes met mine. The bathroom door opened and a man I didn’t know exited, mumbling a prayer. The man walked past me. My father was silent, his lowered head staring at his hands. When the stranger left the house, my father got up from where he was sitting and called to me, “Perele, come sit!” Tension was evident on his face.

  “That man just now was Mordechai the matchmaker...” he began.

  I took a deep breath and said nothing.

  “He found you a prospective husband,” my father said. And his voice suddenly seemed hoarse.

  “But I don’t want to get married, Tatte,” I pleaded.

  “Perele, this is the way of the world. You’ve come of age and now you need a husband.” He spoke as if reciting a verse of a poem.

  “I don’t want to. I don’t want to!” I yelled.

  From the corner of my eye, I could see my mother leaning on the wall and peeking at what was happening in the living room. She didn’t get involved.

  My father clenched his hands and his knuckles whitened. He looked up and then said, “On Tuesday, God saw the world was good twice [from the biblical story of creation], and that’s when we’re meeting the prospective groom’s parents. Just your mother and I, and then we’ll see...” I saw he didn’t have the energy to deal with my opposition. He stroked his long beard, sighed, got up and left me with a bubbling stew of feelings of anxiety, fear, frustration, and of course, loneliness.

  In the days that followed, my father and I exchanged not one word. As if nothing had happened. But inside I counted the days until Tuesday evening. My father came back from the yeshiva 3where he taught and immediately went into the bathroom. My mother sat at the dining table, her head in her hands. About an hour later, my father walked out of his room. His beard was neat, and he was wearing a new yarmulke that he had purchased especially for the occasion. I couldn’t help but think how nice he looked with his height, his graying hair, and his beautiful clothes. That whole time, my parents didn’t look at me or say a word. Just before they left the house, my father turned to me and said, “May this be successful.”

  One hour. Just one hour after they left, they returned home. My mother went straight into their bedroom. My father sat on the couch in the living room, removed his hat, and scratched his shining forehead. His yarmulke fell to the floor. He bent over, picked it up, and put it on his head. He did all that with his eyes averted. He said not a word to me. Many minutes passed in silence, until I realized that he had no intention of talking to me. I left the room and went into my bedroom. His heavy movements and downcast look made me feel pity for him. I almost hoped the meeting had gone well, just to make him happy. I didn’t like the bitter disappointment scorched on his face like tar on a burning hot road. I understood that the meeting had not been successful. I was happy, of course, but I was also sad.

  * * *

  1 The Book of Esther in the Bible tells the story of the rescue of the Jews of Persia from extermination by the villain Haman during the time of King Ahasuerus. This event served as the basis for the Jewish holiday of Purim. According to custom, when the name Haman is mentioned while reading the book in the synagogue, the listeners use noisemakers to drown out the name. It is also customary to wear costumes on the day of Purim.

  2 A light robe worn by men on weekdays

  3 An orthodox institution of higher education that teaches Torah.

  Two

  By the end of the school year, Nechama, Hadassah, and Rivky were all already engaged. Rivky walked around like a proud peacock. Her groom was a scion of a very important family in the community. I knew who he was. He was small and ugly. I would never be willing to marry such a creature, even if he did belong to the royal family. Rivky never stopped extolling his family tree. She kept talking about his virtuous and generous parents and how he was known as a Torah prodigy. Nothing was ever said about his looks. I felt sorry for her. I was pretty sure that deep inside of her she was terrified. Maybe a little disgusted by him. But the deal was signed and the words she had to say wer
e adjusted for appearances’ sake.

  Gone were the days when we sat and dreamed together. The days where we allowed ourselves to speak about forbidden subjects. Then we felt special and courageous. But everything had changed. The engaged girls were in another world and spoke only about topics related to their wedding; about the dowry they would receive, the preparations, the apartment being rented or bought for them. I felt how gradually the distance between us was increasing, like a ship moving away from a familiar shore. They also felt the space being created. I would find them whispering secrets to each other. When they noticed me, they’d flash a smile of confidence mixed with pity and condescension. They were relieved when I always found another excuse why I couldn’t take them up on their invitation to join them. The language between us had changed. They were moving in a direction that I refused to go.

  One day, my mother sent me to a tailor. His shop was outside the neighborhood. It was hot and humid outside. The thick nylon stockings covering my legs were itchy. The jacket covering my long-sleeved shirt pressed my chest like forceps. My hair stuck to my cheeks, and the end of my hair stuck to my tongue with the salty taste of perspiration. I couldn’t carry my body, which felt heavy and worn out. I had to cool off, unwind. I wanted to take off my jacket, roll up my sleeves, and get rid of the thick ugly stockings. I felt like an old lady whose seasoned body had become happy enough with its appearance and wasn’t looking forward to anything new. I didn’t want to feel like that. I was just seventeen and a half, full of dreams, but at the same time, petrified of them. My steps were slow and heavy. Then I felt a cool breeze. My tired eyes looked up and I saw that I’d passed by the public library. I’d never been to a library before. My father forbade us to read anything but holy books. There was a bookstore near our house, but I’d never been inside. I looked around to make sure there was no one around who knew me and slipped inside. At once I felt totally different. A special unfamiliar smell surrounded me, something that was a mix of old and new. I looked around a large room and saw people sitting at tables, heads bent over open books. On either side of me, bookshelves stood tall and straight, peacefully stacked with masses of books. There was no way to count how many books were there.

  I was mesmerized. I’d never seen so many books in one place. Some stood straight, others leaned on the books standing nearby. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the scene. I felt my heart pound and couldn’t explain what was happening to me. It was an unfamiliar and incomprehensible excitement. I imagined the books hugging me and pulling me close to them, exactly like in my dreams of romance. At that moment, I knew I had fallen in love. I inhaled the intoxicating scent and drew it deep into my lungs. I wanted to fill my body with it so that all the unpleasant things there would be pushed out for lack of room. The jacket that had constrained me before let go and hung lightly on my shoulders. The stockings stopped itching, my body was refreshed and ready. For what? I didn’t know yet. I took a deep breath and strode into the hall. I wanted to immediately become part of the world that was laid out before me. It drew me in as if it were returning me to my natural surroundings. None of the people bent over reading at the tables looked up to see the foreign invader. From their point of view, it was just normal for me to be there. I felt happiness. I was just normal. Normal, me? I continued toward the shelves and walked down the rows. My fingers patted the books as if making their acquaintance. I wanted to meet each and every one of them. To get to know their internal world. To introduce them to mine. I wanted to make friends with them, to spend time together. To have joint experiences. I wanted these things, and standing there, I knew I would do it.

  The library became my first home. I visited once a week, sometimes more often. I gulped down the books as if they were nectar. The words turned into my friends instead of those that had all but disappeared. Each week I dove into a new world, which opened up another world and another. I met characters that I hadn’t known existed, was introduced to relationships that in my parallel world were forbidden, and that suddenly became proper and natural. I met strong and bold women who didn’t give up. I met figures, with some of whom I could identify. Others I rejected. I discovered that the world wasn’t just one big herd streaming in one direction, but a diverse assemblage of people with different opinions. My soul raged, and the confusion increased. I asked myself what was right and what wasn’t. Was it possible to live in two opposing worlds at the same time? Was what was written in the books only a sequence of worlds from the writer’s imagination, or was it somehow connected to reality? The questions whirred inside my mind nonstop, and the more of them there were, the more they interested me. I looked for answers. I wanted to be able to conform, to know exactly where I belonged. I wanted a simple answer, one way or another. Black or white. Left or right.

  And then the message came in. My world, protected by the secret I carried with me, was suddenly shattered. It happened one day when I had spent many hours at the library. I had been cut off from time and the world around me, and for those hours I’d been in another world, which accepted me unconditionally. There I had been truly happy. I was so immersed in reading that I didn’t notice that I was the only one left in the hall. A hand touched me softly. “We’re closing in another few minutes,” said the librarian who had unbeknownst to her, become my anchor. I felt her gentle touch on my arm as a caress. I lifted my head to an understanding and sympathetic gaze. “I didn’t want to bother you,” she continued, “but we’re already supposed to close the library.”

  “Oh, excuse me, I just hadn’t noticed what time it was,” I apologized.

  “No problem,” she said. Her warm eyes looked at me softly. “Next time you come, I’ll show you the new books we’ve purchased.”

  I smiled at her awkwardly. Until then, I hadn’t known that anyone had noticed my presence. I would come in, march straight to the bookshelves, and sit down in a corner of the reading room.

  “Thank you,” I managed to say and got up. I could feel her gaze on my back as I made my way to the door.

  On the way, the librarian’s gaze accompanied me home like a friend. I felt that she knew things about me without our having spoken about them, and that was fine with me. I was even happy about it. But the joy was cut short the moment I got home.

  “Mazel tov, congratulations!” my mother approached me and planted a kiss on my cheek. My father came over to me and his face shone as if the sun were shining straight on it. My little brothers and sisters jumped up and became part of the merry occasion, though they apparently didn’t know what it was all about. I stood in the center of the room as if I were watching a horror movie. My arms hung at either side and tears flowed uncontrollably. My father, who had misinterpreted my reaction, came over to me. He had words of encouragement.

  “Everything will be all right, Perele,” he said with a smile. “We found you a groom, a learned boy, from a good family. Everything will be good.”

  Inside of me I thought, what’s he talking about? What’s all the happiness for? Didn’t he know? Did he forget? I despised my father at that moment. I couldn’t look at him. Did he forget our conversation? Why was he ignoring what I’d said, what I wanted? What kind of father was he? I turned around and fled from the house as fast as I could. I couldn’t bear the way my parents were looking at me or their fake joy. I knew that inside they knew the truth, but were choosing to ignore it, and me. I ran to my little hill in the open field. My body trembled from anger and fear. The sky above was gray and threatening, adapting itself to my situation. I imagined that it was shrinking and getting closer and closer to me, until it almost touched me, and I put my hand up high to stop it from crushing me. I felt terrible. Defeated. Weak and panicky. I knew my fate had been decided. The deal was done. Hands had been shaken in agreement. At that moment, I was returned again to my dark room, submitting to the inclinations of my big brother.

  My mother and sisters worked all week, polishing and purifying the house. Every corner was doused with
cleaning chemicals. Even the walls were polished, and my father had painted all the stains that had accumulated on them over the years. My mother bought a new tablecloth that this time wasn’t covered with glossy nylon but glowed with gold and festive decorations. Two days before the event, she took me out shopping. She negotiated with the saleswoman, who was surprised at my apathy and lack of involvement in choosing the clothes. And me? I moved like a robot. Nothing interested me. I walked around the world like a doomed person; no whimper of resistance on my part would change my fate.

  The terrible day arrived. My father went to the yeshiva but returned earlier than usual. He was excited. My mother spent the whole day in the kitchen. The aroma of the foods she had made that usually pulled me into the kitchen just nauseated me. At five in the afternoon, the bell rang. “Shoilem aleychem!! Welcome,” my parents greeted the visitors. I remained standing on the side with my head down, so my eyes wouldn’t meet those of my intended groom, and I would commit the sin of lack of modesty. My parents invited the intended groom and his parents to sit, and we sat across from them. Despite my contempt for the whole event, I was curious to see the face of the person I would be spending the rest of my life with.

  I sat, my arms next to my thighs, and gradually, without their noticing, I lifted my head. The first thing I saw was the end of a copper beard. I lifted my head up a bit more, and the copper was still burning across from me. I couldn’t make out the facial features. The orange hair covered them entirely. He was quiet too, and let his parents conduct the meeting without interrupting. We sat like two stone statues, cut off from what was happening and from each other. I wished I could have made myself disappear. I wished I were a pesky fly. I could have moved from one to the next and bothered them. I would land on the end of their noses or on their mouths and not let them sit there and decide my entire life clause by clause, as if I had nothing to do with it.