Jephte's Daughter (10 page)

“What’s wrong,
maideleh?
”

Batsheva opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. What could she say that wouldn’t sound childish and perfectly ridiculous, she thought, hearing the conversation take place in her mind. Isaac kicked the dog and locked him in the pool shed, she’d say, and her mother would answer:
Vey is mere!
What did the dog do to him? He barked at him and nipped him, she’d answer, and then her mother would say:
Oy
, I hate that little dog. Such a mean personality. I’ll have to tell John to get rid of it. And then she’d say: Ima, please, try to understand. It wasn’t the dog. It was how meanly Isaac did it. I was so surprised.
Oy
, her mother would answer. This is what you worry about! A dog you worry about? A fine handsome man like Isaac, a brilliant scholar, a
tzaddik
, and you worry about the dog? Why don’t you worry about your future husband? She would laugh.

So Batsheva was quiet for a while, the irritation growing inside of her at the imagined exchange until it burst out with irrational force: “I’m not going to marry Isaac, Ima. Nobody can force me to.”

“What? What’s wrong, everything was going so well…” Her mother sat up in alarm. “He said something to you?”

She shook her head. Her mother patted her hand. What do I know, Mrs Ha-Levi thought to herself. I am so useless. But she felt obligated to fulfill her role and that role, as far as she understood it, was to further the goals of her husband, who was so much wiser than she. The way she followed the laws of the Torah, even when she could not understand their purpose, believing her understanding too limited to perceive the grand design in which such small particulars had infinite meaning and worth, so she followed her husband’s advice. “Of course you must look into your own heart, Batshevaleh, but trust Aba. Aba knows best.” The words came out almost automatically. “Talk to him about it. He will know what to tell you. You know we both only want your happiness.”

“I won’t, and you and Aba can’t make me!” Batsheva said, furious at her mother’s inability to even give her token support, feeling like a little kid throwing a tantrum. She was ashamed of herself, and at the same time enormously relieved, as she jumped up and ran to her room, slamming the door behind her and locking it securely.

Stunned, immobilized by the familiar indecision and panic she had always felt whenever caught between her husband and daughter’s strong, conflicting wills, Fruma Ha-Levi sat on the bed thinking. To contemplate her husband’s fallibility had never before been within her range of possibilities. But touched by her only daughter’s misery, she began to wonder.

She held her bathrobe to her cheek. Tell him. Must know. Be all right. Settle everything. She slowly put her arms through the sleeves, feeling little waves of comfort at her snatches of thought. But in between the waves were long stretches of dangerous uncertainty and fear.

She knocked on the door of his study and waited for his permission to enter. He looked up at her with a smile that soon turned to puzzled concern.

“What’s wrong, my dear?”

She gripped the back of a big leather chair.

“I’m…not sure about…” She stopped and started again, taking a deep breath for courage. “Perhaps Isaac isn’t the right one for Batsheva, Abraham. Perhaps we should look some more.” Encouraged by his silence, the way he paced the room, giving her all his attention, the rest just poured out. “After all, he is just the first boy she’s met. Perhaps there are other boys out there who would be a better
shidduch
for her. After all, learning isn’t everything. Perhaps she needs a boy who is more worldly. A doctor or a lawyer. Someone who lives in America…” She stopped, appalled at the transformation that had come over him. Appalled and terrified. It was that old nightmare coming true. Her worst fears materializing: His face, contorted in rage and bitterness, looked at her like a stranger, an enemy.

“YOU…YOU DO THIS TO ME? I had expected that tutor, that Elizabeth. Even Batsheva herself…” He paced the room with dangerous energy, talking to himself. Then he stopped once again and looked at her with thin, tight lips and narrowed eyes.

“But you?” he whispered, and the incongruous softness of his tone was a hundred times more frightening to her than his shouting. “Yes.” He nodded, his tone thick with ridicule. “Let her marry a tailor or a movie producer then. Or some American
yeshivah bucher
who’ll specialize in examining the lungs of dead chickens. That will be a fitting end to the Ha-Levis…”

She began to weep softly.

And then he suddenly slumped into a chair, covering his face with his hands. Hesitantly, she walked over to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. He grasped it and held it for a moment, then kissed it. “Help me. You must,” he said thickly. “This is the most important thing in my life—in our daughter’s life…”

“I only want her to be happy, Abraham.” Her tears fell in a steady, soft stream. “For you both to be happy.”

He stood up and took her in his arms, taking out a large, clean handkerchief and wiping away her tears. “My dear wife. Look at me.” He held her chin up. “Look at my eyes.” She stared, frightened, into the dark depths of his eyes, which seemed so strange and unfamiliar to her. But it was her husband still. The man she had loved, trusted, almost worshiped, from the moment she had first set eyes on him. The man who had been the source of every happiness she had ever known, who had showered her with kindness and consideration, who had overlooked her inadequacies, her weaknesses, her stupidities, who had asked for almost nothing in return.

“Do you believe I could ever hurt Batsheva?” The long Sabbath afternoons, the Sunday outings, the gifts, the child’s head pressed into his shoulder, her hand in his…

“Of course not. Never.” She shook her head vehemently.

“I have spent much time with Isaac. He is…I cannot even describe his qualities. He is like a rare diamond. Only once in hundreds of years do the Jewish people receive a precious mind like his. His potential is so great it is unimaginable. And Batsheva. She, too, is a rare jewel. Together, think of the children that will be born, what they will inherit. It will be a new beginning…”

She was hardly listening anymore, all her senses filled with unutterable gratitude that she had not smashed it all to pieces; that his tone was now loving again, that his hand stroked hers kindly, affectionately. She felt as if she had moved back from the brink, glimpsed the abyss. “Do you really think he will make her happy, Abraham?” she whispered.

“Trust me, my dear wife. Can you do that?”

In response, she merely returned the gentle squeeze of his hand. Yes, she thought. Trust him. After all, what other choice did she really have?

Batsheva, locked in her room, was deaf to all entreaties “to at least come down and have a little bite.”

Then, toward evening, another knock came. Solid and forceful.

“Go away!”

“It’s Aba.” His voice was firm, without compassion. No. She would not let such a voice in. Period. The silence grew. “Please, Batshevaleh. You are not a child. Must we talk like this, with a door between us? Must I stand on my poor old legs until morning?” he said gently. He heard the key turn in the lock and smiled to himself. She opened the door.

“I’m sorry, Aba.” She looked down, too ashamed to face him. She felt so foolish. She couldn’t even explain, that was the maddening part. Her whole body tensed, ready for the fight she knew would come. But to her surprise, her father said only: “It’s such a lovely evening. Please come for a little drive.” She looked at him suspiciously, and he made a small, disparaging sound with his tongue, a kind of click to the roof of his mouth.

“Of course, just the two of us.”

It
was
a lovely evening and she was delighted to be out of the house, a safe distance from any accidental meeting with Isaac. She had not seen him since the business with the dog and didn’t want to. She was afraid to face him, afraid he would see how much and how unfairly her feelings had changed. She kept waiting for her father to bring up the subject. But he said nothing, leaning back comfortably, looking out of the window at the setting sun. She began to relax, to let down her guard. When he spoke, he did so mildly, as if he was just making light conversation.

“I want to tell you something, and then I will leave you alone.”

Here it comes, she told herself, gripping the sides of the seat. “I want to tell you that I love you more than my life,” he said hoarsely, reaching out for her hand and patting it. “If I ever thought you were in danger of being hurt in any way, I would gladly give my life to prevent it. You believe that, Sheva, don’t you?”

She nodded, feeling so ashamed at her mistrust. “Yes, Aba. I do.”

“I have spent this whole last week, day and night, talking to Isaac and his rebbe. Isaac is a remarkable man. Once in a generation only does such a mind exist. And he is not only brilliant, but pious to a degree that makes me feel ashamed of myself for all my faults. I could love him like the son I never had. You could do this for me, but most of all for yourself, my dear child. No matter where else in the world I will search, I can only find men who are almost as good as Isaac Harshen. If you refuse him, we must both settle for second best.” For the first time he looked at her with all the force of his fatherly love and authority.

“Think of it, Batsheva. All of our family has been slaughtered—grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins. All gone. Only you are left. Only you carry the living chain, the genes, that can bring the Ha-Levis back to life. I know you are a good child. You have always given me nothing but
nachas
, happiness and pride. You have eased so much terrible pain from my heart. You’ve given me hope, Batshevaleh, that our family will yet survive, will yet defeat those murderers and lunatics.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Batsheva reached out and squeezed his hand. She felt her heart ache with love and pity for him.

“You see, you are not like other girls who can choose according to their hearts alone. You are like Sarah, or Rivkah—the matriarch of a whole new generation. To marry the wrong man would accomplish just what Hitler set out to do: It would destroy us. You cannot know, dear child, what kind of men the Ha-Levis were. You have only me as a poor example. Ah, if only you could have known your grandfather, your uncles…” He wiped his eyes.

In another moment, she felt, her heart must break. “Aba, don’t, please.”

She had never seen him cry. She was shocked and horrified to the roots of her being, wanting only to comfort him whatever the price. “Please, Aba, don’t,” she whispered. “Is Isaac really like Reb Yerachmiel?” she asked shyly.

“In brilliance, very like. And also in his goodness. I am a perceptive man, an experienced man. I can see that. Can’t you trust me, my dear child, believe me? He would make you such a wonderful husband, Sheva. And he loves you dearly.”

She sat up very straight. “Did he…tell you?”

He smiled at his daughter, his little girl who liked to be flattered and petted. “Of course, such a man does not come out and say such things. But I see it in his eyes as he looks at you. He adores the ground you walk upon, my dear child.” He took her hand in his large one, softly, but firmly, leaving it no escape back to the cold, detached freedom it had known before by her side. “Do you remember the promise you made me to give this a chance? Well, that is all I ask. I see that something has upset you. I won’t even ask you what. But you must promise me that you will have a talk with Isaac before he goes, to see if you can’t straighten all of this out. And if not…” He shrugged and lifted his hands to the sky. “No one will force you. We will simply look some more.”

Gratefully, and of her own free will, she gave him her other hand. He accepted it without surprise.

She got into bed, weary in body and soul, and considered her options. If she refused, they would bring her someone else. Only this time, maybe it would be some fat fellow from Borough Park in Brooklyn who had never traveled. Someone like Rabbi Elimelech, who thought bras were “dizzzgusting.” At least this way, she would get to travel and live in an exotic place like Jerusalem. Her heart did a little dance. She had seen pictures of the hills, the camels, the ancient stone walls. So interesting to photograph. And from there, Europe was just a stone’s throw: Paris, Rome, Amsterdam. Just a few hours by plane. And when she was a married woman, her parents and teachers halfway across the world, who would tell her what to do then?

As sleep began to creep over her, all her rational arguments faded away and she was left with two very different, very contrasting, states of emotion. On the one hand the terrible blackness of sleep seemed too frightening and mysterious to face, and she fought it. With horror, she felt herself losing, drowning in the blackness that washed over her. But soon she felt herself throb with the gentle rhythm of familiar warmth and comfort. She was being held between her father’s large, loving, protective hands, being saved from all harm. And then suddenly, it was not her father at all, but Isaac, caressing her with his long, elegant hands, holding her securely, passionately…