Sotah (46 page)
She couldn’t bear it. She turned her back and ran, light swift steps, like the steps running down the stairs, knowing that he was waiting for her … Noach! The sense of waste and shame and deceit rose up like the jutting edge of a great overhang high above the sea. She found herself walking toward it, then running. Something good would be there. (Judah! She wanted so to see him, to explain.) Or Noach? Or perhaps they would both be there! And her father! And her mother! And the dark-coated men, the white-gloved stranger …
She felt herself running, and suddenly she wasn’t Dina anymore, but someone grown gross and ugly, full of sores, shamefully undressed. She tried to cover herself, her breasts, her white thighs, but her hands were too small.
They were all there—everyone—she suddenly realized, waiting for her by the edge. They would see her like this, naked! … Horror filled her. She felt herself running faster, being chased. And all of a sudden she was at the edge. Far below she saw the sharp black rocks, the white, crashing waves. She had two choices: to stand before them all in her nakedness or to cover herself the only way left, by jumping down, down deep, laying deep beneath the water, where she would hear no accusing cries, see no disgusted stares, where all her shame would be invisible. The water would cover her, protect her. She would hear nothing, see nothing. She would be nothing.
She stood for one last moment, looking at the sky, the earth, all the faces of those she loved, and then she felt the earth disappear, the water cover her head with kindness, like a blanket tucked around a beloved child.
J
udah held his crying baby in his big, rough hands, his lips tasting the salty wetness of the child’s flaming, agitated cheeks. “Sha, sha, Yossele,” the father crooned. The child’s misery, sudden and petty, was more than he could bear. He felt like a pot boiling over a high flame. The slightest addition of even the smallest drop of pain would send all his carefully controlled emotions flooding messily over the top. He walked through the dark rooms where only a few months before he had been so incredibly happy. It seemed like someone else’s home now, uncherished, abandoned. He stroked the little warm back, the white, perfect toes, trying to still the tears—his own and the child’s.
The incredible good-bye letter she had written him lay beneath his pillow, along with the other note he had found crumpled on the floor. Both were in her handwriting, yet how different they were! What to believe? What did it matter? he told himself in the mornings, when the light streamed into the house, illuminating all the dark corners, simplifying and straightening all the twisted, dark confusion that descended on him every night. What did it matter what had happened? She was gone. She’d left him of her own free will without even trying to explain. She had not trusted his love, the depth of his care. She had run like a spoiled, guilty, frivolous child. It had been an entire month, and no word at all had been heard from her.
It wasn’t right to still love her, he told himself in the mornings. She didn’t deserve his love, after everything she’d done. And sometimes the feeling of hard justice was potent enough to last the whole day, giving his shoulders strength to keep from rounding, giving his neck a reason to stay erect, to hold his chin up from his chest.
The pressure from Kurzman and his henchmen never let up. They were after him constantly, by phone, with notes, in person. Divorce her, they demanded. Now. It is only right, they insisted. You are a good man, why should you share in her sin? Acquit yourself. Do the right thing.
And sometimes, in the mornings, he felt himself agreeing with them. He had even set the date in the rabbinical court for the proceedings. Her presence wasn’t even necessary. It would be delivered to her by proxy. She’d just open the envelope and find herself divorced, with no say in the matter, no property settlement, no visitation rights. Nothing. Sometimes that thought even pleased him.
The baby’s sobs subsided into a sleepy whimper. He tiptoed into the nursery and laid the child on his stomach in the crib. He stood there a while, rubbing the little shoulders, the tiny spine, watching the child’s chest heave spasmodically with a stubborn attempt to rekindle his fury. Yet already his little lashes swept his downy cheeks, his breathing growing steadily deeper and calmer. He watched his little son. He had her hair, her eyes. Every time he looked at Yossele his heart bled anew with a fresh agony of loss.
It was at dusk that all the hardness left him, the certainty. All he could think of was his beautiful little flower of a wife, his gentle, sweet Dina. The rest was a nightmare, too vile, too incredible, to have any truth. And sometimes, at night, he blamed himself. Why hadn’t he put a stop to it? Why hadn’t he had eyes to see and ears to hear, a nose to smell what was going on beneath it? He could have saved her, if only he had been paying attention, he chastised himself.
And then still another stage came upon him, when dusk turned to the pitch blackness of night: suddenly he couldn’t think of anything. He would crawl into bed, his whole body a great shout of longing, of pain, all the shoulds and shouldn’ts of the morning draining away and leaving him with pure, mindless sensations. He felt deeply, strongly, honestly—unhampered by any rational thought. And it was at these times that he realized that even in the vacuum, in the great, raw hole that had been ripped out of his life, that old passion for her still burned with a hot and steady flame. He didn’t understand it. And yet, still, it was true.
He sat down on the rocking chair and closed his eyes, and it all came back to him: the weight of her warm, womanly body on his lap, the fragrant scent of her clean skin as her head pressed against his shoulder. Then, slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes and stared across at the bare, uncurtained windows of the apartment across the way, torturing himself with an insistence on figuring out the details. How had he looked at her for the first time? Had she responded immediately, or had she resisted? How had it gone from looking to speaking? From speaking to meeting? He felt his whole body tense with the crescendo of anguish as these thoughts finally rose as high as they could go and then collapsed of their own weight.
The apartment across the way was vacant now, emptied hastily by burly movers who had unknowingly removed along with the furniture his last hope of getting any answers to his questions. The Saltzman family had just disappeared, almost overnight. No one even knew where they’d gone. Some said to Bnai Brak, while others claimed they were in the
haredi
stronghold of Borough Park, Brooklyn, in New York City.
Judah felt a muscle in his jaw flex with fury. He would have torn the other man apart with his bare hands. He should have done … something. Done something, he repeated to himself with a dull litany of regret and self-hatred. He rocked wearily, his body cold and separate and unbearably wretched with loss. How would he go on? Perhaps they were right. The divorce was necessary to put an end to the dreaming, to salvage something of his self-respect. He tried to imagine where she was and what she was doing. Perhaps she was with him, her lover, even now! Yet, somehow, that thought was almost more bearable than the idea that she was far away, alone, and unhappy.
He rocked back and forth, trying to lull his senses, to deaden them. If he had been a drinking man, he would have gotten roaring drunk. But the idea of involving alcohol, which religious Jews used to sanctify every joyous celebration, in such a joyless enterprise seemed to him almost a sacrilege. So he stayed sober, drunk only with pain.
Moishe adjusted his army beret over his head, tucked in his army dress uniform, and walked briskly toward the exit to the base. He passed his sergeant, stopped, saluted smartly but didn’t look him in the eyes (with the situation on the borders what they were, there was no telling if and when all leaves would be instantly canceled), then heaved a sigh of relief when the man continued walking. He hurried.
At first he didn’t think it was she. She seemed so tall, so thin. Her hair, gathered together in a velvet ribbon, fell down her back in a great exuberance of curls, the wisps escaping and twirling around her face. He slowed his steps. The guard at the gate, a kid just out of basic training, had been trying to be cute with her, he could tell. She had turned her back to him, and her posture was stiff and defensive. The dress was elegant yet absolutely modest. She would have fit in on any street in Bnai Brak, he thought a little anxiously. He had not seen her in six months.
“Chaya Leah!”
He saw her turn, startled. A deep, warm smile spread over her face. She bent down and lifted a shopping bag, tucking her purse smartly under her arm. She took a few steps toward him. Then they just stood together, not touching, not speaking, just drinking in each other’s presence.
Her eyes roamed over his face, his body made unfamiliar by the khaki. His arms were so strong and tan, his bearded face weathered, toughened. He had also grown taller and slimmer. She blushed, feeling herself in the presence of an incredibly attractive stranger.
“Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” He laughed, turning around to present her with a total view of Moishe: Tank Commander.
She looked into his eyes and smiled. “Anything.”
“I’ve only got a few hours off, and then our unit is moving out. Let’s not waste any time.” He reached out and took her arm, steering her into the parking lot. She moved subtly but firmly away from him.
This, Moishe thought, was not good news.
They took the bus into Tiberias and walked down to the wharf, which was crowded by summer vacationers. The place was bustling with waiters carrying steaming platters of fried and grilled St Peter’s fish, large baskets of pita bread, and plates of humus. Pleasure boats blaring the latest Israeli hits carried families across the incredibly blue waters from the western to the eastern shore of the lake. Motor boats dragging water-skiers vied for space with fishing boats and small foot-propelled paddle boats. And all along the boardwalk, young couples linked their arms together and strolled, happily, timelessly, intoxicated by the heady first taste of love.
Moishe and Chaya Leah found themselves walking farther and farther apart. He kept his hands in his pockets, and she held on to her purse and shopping bag. Finally he looked up at her. “What is it?”
She shook her head. “Don’t. Don’t make me. It’ll ruin it all.”
“That bad?” He had no inkling what it could be.
“Worse.”
“Come, let’s sit down. I’ve got my pay. I can afford it.”
They found a dockside table in the shade of a gay umbrella.
The waiter was rude but anxious to be finished with them, so the service was at least quick. She squeezed the lemon over the fish, then took a fork and just picked at it idly.
“Well, this is where it all began, isn’t it?”
She looked confused.
“Fish,” he said soberly.
“Gefilte fish,” she said, suddenly smiling, her eyes bright with tears.
“Hey, love, what is it?”
“I can’t see you anymore.”
He sat back, eyeing her with stunned incomprehension. “What have I done?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head miserably.
“Then?”
“It’s my sister. She’s left her husband. My father is sick about it. I can’t even tell you. It’s even worse than when my mother died. Oh, Moishe, he’s so ashamed. He can’t look anyone in the eye anymore. He says it was his fault, how he raised her. That he’s failed. Oh, I hate her! How could she have done this!”
“But what has your sister running off got to do with us?”
“Don’t you understand? She’s put us into the spotlight now! All our walls are glass. People never stop looking, whispering. If anyone even suspected I was meeting you today … I think my father would just die, and I’d have killed him. Just like I … my mother …”
He reached out to her. “Hey, stop. Stop doing this to yourself … my love.”
She was quiet. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. “He’s all we’ve got left. The boys …”
“So we’ll get married!”
“I can’t marry you.”
“Why not?”
“Because everyone would ask questions about how we met. Garfinkel would tell the whole world it wasn’t through him.”
Moishe gulped down his Coke. He took out a package of cigarettes and tapped one on the counter and lit it. Then he leaned back and stuck his thumb in his belt, curling his fingers around the cold metal of his army-issue revolver. Trapped. The street was always stronger. Its arms reached out and captured you no matter how far you fled.
He looked at the beautiful blue waters and the hills in the distance, where even as they spoke enemy mortars and PLO guerrillas armed to the teeth by the Saudis and Libyans and Syrians were now massing. The future seemed so unreal. The moment, that was the only truth he knew right now. He turned his attention to the lovely young woman who sat across from him, reaching out and squeezing her hand gently. She looked around nervously, then relaxed, returning the pressure.
“Come, let’s not talk anymore. Let’s just be together.”
She nodded, surprised. She had expected him to be angry, to rage. She took his acquiescence as a sign of hopelessness. A dull anguish blunted her feelings so that she almost felt refreshed, renewed. Whatever was going to happen would happen, she told herself, slipping her arm through his. His muscles pressed back, young and healthy.
They walked for a long time, not speaking of anything, the silence winding around them, hovering over them like a canopy. Her heart ached with love for him, this handsome young man. She couldn’t think of losing him, of pitting her need for him against her responsibility to her family. Yet there it was. When she was with him, her family didn’t exist, and when she was with her father, her own needs didn’t exist, or at least could be forgotten.
He held her in his arms, and all her fears dissolved, melting away all her resolutions and decisions. “Moishe, my love …” She held him close. His lips brushed her temple. His arms were strong and young and handsome.
