“There was a man in the land of Uz, whose name was Job; and that man was whole-hearted and upright, and one that feared God, and shunned evil…”
And this is the way the rumor started in Meah Shearim: Mrs Finkelstein, leaning out of her window at 7
A.M
. to hang out wet laundry, noticed that Mrs Harshen’s line, usually full, was empty. She naturally mentioned this to Mrs Glick and both women wondered if Mrs Harshen was well. Mrs Glick, at the butcher shop, met Mrs Halperin, and told her she thought Mrs Harshen wasn’t well, and then the butcher, Mr Cohen, mentioned that Mrs Harshen hadn’t been in yet for her Sabbath chickens, and, it being already Thursday, this was accepted by all as a very strange and alarming piece of news. The butcher, mentioning this to his wife, was told that his son—who normally studied under Isaac Harshen’s tutelage at the
kollel
, had come home early, since his teacher had not arrived for three days in a row to give his usual lesson. And then, sitting down next to her husband, her hands still wet and red from the heat of the dishwater, the butcher’s wife whispered that Mrs Schultz had told her a young woman (Mrs Schultz had said a beautiful young woman, but Mrs Cohen edited that out as inappropriate information for her husband, who was not supposed to be interested in such things), hatless, and wigless, had been seen entering the home of Isaac Harshen right after Sabbath prayers. Mrs Cohen’s eyebrows had risen perceptibly and her voice had an indignant, hushed tone, implying a clear understanding of the impropriety of such a visit and the interpretation she was now giving it.
Mr Cohen listened alertly with a pained expression. He was upset both at the information, which implied such a serious indiscretion—an unchaperoned visit from a woman—to such a distinguished and tragic member of the male community, as well as his own inability to silence his wife and thus overcome the strength of his Evil Inclination to listen to such wonderful gossip. But once caught in the trap of listening, he wanted to know everything. When did the woman leave? Who was she? Had she gone to see him again? The first question was asked delicately and with a great deal of reluctance, for one certainly did not want to discuss such terrible implications with one’s pious, unimaginative wife. There was also the terrible sin of slander and evil gossip involved, and also the need to judge each man favorably, despite appearances to the contrary. But as it turned out, Mr Cohen needn’t have worried: The only answer forthcoming from his wife turned out to be nothing more than an exasperating and uninformative shrug of the shoulders.
This conversation was repeated, more or less, in dozens of houses in Meah Shearim. The answers began as an exercise in imagination by those who, unlike the butcher’s wife, could not bear the vacuum of an honest lack of real information. A sister perhaps, with news about an ailing mother? But all Isaac’s sisters were married matrons, not young, bare-headed girls. A young neighbor sent by Mrs Harshen to inform him of her illness? But then, certainly, in the dark, she would have chosen a young boy to go. A
shidduch
from the matchmaker, perhaps? This last one, the most unacceptable of all, was put forth by children too young to have been listening to such conversations who were quickly hushed and sent off to bed. No matchmaker would condone the scandalous visit of a girl unaccompanied by her parents and brothers. And besides, custom had it that the man came to visit the girl at her own well-inhabited and well-lit home. Besides, Isaac had not even been declared a widower, owing to the unfortunate lack of his wife’s body. And although he would have been able to get a
heter
—a dispensation—to take a second wife failing the recovery of his first wife’s remains, he had chosen not to.
No one, no one at all, guessed the truth until Mrs Harshen, in a paroxysm of uncontrollable aggravation, opened the door to Mrs Finkelstein, Mrs Glick, Mrs Halperin, and Mrs Cohen—who had all come to fulfill the
mitzvah
of visiting the sick—and collapsed into their arms shrieking: “She has come back, that wicked, crazy girl! My poor Isaac!
Vey, vey
, my poor son!”
And this was the way that all of Meah Shearim, and the many outlying religious enclaves in the north of Jerusalem, and in the
haredi
—literally those who trembled in their fear of sin—stronghold of Bnei Brak, learned the incredible, miraculous truth: that Batsheva Ha-Levi Harshen had not died at all but had disappeared for reasons still undecided, and now, for reasons still ferociously debated, had returned to her husband.
The rumors, like waves of a hurricane, battered the community and rocked the Hassidim faithful to the Ha-Levis to the depths of despair and to the heights of incredible rejoicing: She and the child had been kidnapped by rival Hassidic groups eager to destroy the Ha-Levis and after the payment of a huge ransom by her father, she had been returned. She had run away and gone to live with a Gentile in sin in Europe. She was following the prophecy of the old rebbe that had come from the Divine throne itself to separate herself and the little heir to the dynasty from the sinfulness of the Hassidim, who needed to undergo terrible suffering in order to be worthy of him. The stories, rumors, conjectures, and bits of real information intertwined, coiling around each other with the complicated precision and confusion of macramé until it all seemed like truth, or a fantastic fable from the books of the Hassidim.
And then a sudden, tense quiet settled on the community as it realized there would be more to come.
Isaac Meyer Harshen, dressed in an impeccable black suit, looked down at himself and picked off microscopic pieces of lint from his jacket with immaculately clean fingernails. By no look or word did he betray to any one of the students milling around him the tension that was building inside of his chest like the steam worked up by an engine that can propel a train across many barren miles. Idly, he thought to himself what the reaction of these simple, uncomplicated boys would be if he should turn to them casually and say: “My wife is not dead at all. She will be here in twenty minutes.” He looked at his students in contempt. What fools they all were! How they listened to him with such awe and respect as he twisted the teachings of the Talmud to suit his own ends. Some of them had wives at home. He wondered about them, how it would feel to touch them, the new young brides, slim and frightened under their modest sheets. He had not had a woman in two years.
Oh, the matchmakers had been busy with him, but Abraham Ha-Levi had made it very clear that the moment he remarried, the power and the possessions would all revert to their original owner. He was in no rush to return to his former poverty and obscurity. Besides, he had always been good at repression. So he repressed and hid his natural feelings, his need for love, for physical passion, sublimating them into a raging, bitter self-discipline that everyone mistook for piety.
Batsheva had personally brought a letter asking for a divorce the week before, when he had, thankfully, not been home. So he had already plunged through the initial stages of shock and anger and even some relief and had now arrived at a calm plateau in which he had only two goals: to come out of it all looking good to his Hassidim, and to see her punished profoundly. This meeting, which was to take place at his insistence, had a number of purposes: to take her measure for the combat that was ahead; to intimidate her as much as possible; and to see her again, close up and alone.
He paced, looking out of the window. “Go now!” he said to the students with an abrupt, impatient gesture of his hand. They were used to the harsh manner of their brilliant teacher, his lack of manners and delicacy, and did not think it amiss. Closing their heavy Talmudical volumes, they left. He gave some thought to how he should meet her. Standing, at the door? No, too forthcoming. Well, then, seated behind his desk? Too controlled, lacking in danger. It must be in the bedroom. He must get her into the bedroom.
Like a general, he ticked off his objectives: First, he did not want a divorce. He wanted his wife and child back with him as before, the undisputed leadership of the Ha-Levi dynasty placed squarely into his hands for good. Second, he wanted it clearly established that her disappearance had had nothing to do with him, that it was all from her own weak, sinful nature, which he, in his magnanimity and piety, would be willing to overlook. He wanted everything to be exactly as it had been.
But, not being a stupid man, he understood that he must necessarily have a fallback position. If she insisted upon the divorce, she could have it then. But under no circumstances would she be able to consider having the custody of the child. For only as father and guardian of the child could he retain with some legitimacy his power as leader of the Ha-Levis. He tried to remember his baby son, but could evoke nothing more than smells: the sour odor of spoiled milk; the rank, animal odor of dirty diapers. He wrinkled his nose in distaste.
He walked over to his desk and pulled out the file prepared by the detective agency. It was the same agency parents in Meah Shearim were now using to check on prospective marriage partners for their sons and daughters. The grooms were followed to make sure they took no midnight trips to Tel Aviv’s whorehouses, that they did not wander into stores selling forbidden books and lascivious magazines, that they were as diligent in their studies as the matchmaker swore. The brides were followed to see that they were dressed modestly at all times, accepted no rides from strangers, and led active lives that boded well for clean houses and well-washed children. The prospective in-laws’ finances were also checked to make sure they were not holding back any money that could be demanded as dowry, or an apartment that could be handed over to the young couple as a gift to save the young scholar the worry of paying a mortgage or rent his whole life. In comparison, their work for Isaac had been easy. He had asked them to find out only one thing: if any man had accompanied Batsheva Harshen when she came into Ben Gurion Airport. He looked with satisfaction at the clean, full pages of the report on David Hope. Yes, his fallback position was a very good one indeed.
Batsheva stood before the door of the home she had come to with all the fragile, beautiful hopes of a young bride and had left full of fey knowledge. She had dreamed of this place, in dark, colorless dreams that had filled her with a sense of immobility and imprisonment. She had been sure she would never have the courage to enter it again. But here she was, about to knock, to face Isaac Meyer Harshen once more.
It was a lovely house, she reflected with some surprise. Its white stones looked like an ancient sculpture, full of cryptic meaning. In her bowels she felt a rumble of fear. It was a mistake to have agreed to meet Isaac here alone, she told herself. But then, he could hold up proceedings for months if he wished, and she so wanted to get this over with. She felt as if she were alone piloting a boat down a dark river, the banks on either side thick with trees. Who knew what dangers lurked behind them, waiting to rush out at her as she made her slow, lonely progress through them? But at the end of it was David, his arms outstretched to meet her. He had wanted to come now, too. Dear, foolish man. What the rabbinical court would make of that! She had told him not to meet her at the airport, but he had not listened. David, David! Her heart contracted thinking of him standing there so solid and handsome, his whole beautiful soul written clearly on his face as he waited there to gather her into his arms, come what may.
She pressed her lips together, calling up every ounce of courage she had ever possessed, and knocked on the door. Come what may. It was eerie, as if one had suddenly been transported back into time. Nothing had changed and yet everything had. The pictures, lovely landscapes, had all been taken down and in their place were prints of old rabbis in long beards and dour expressions. The lovely china and crystal were gone—into Isaac’s mother’s house no doubt, she thought wryly. And it was clean, immaculately, aggressively clean, full of the harsh, unpleasant smell of detergents, window cleaners, and polish. She could just see her mother-in-law’s relentless, unmerciful housekeeping in every corner, erasing any sign of life, of habitation by normal human beings. Its cold negation of life made her shudder. And suddenly he was standing there before her.
“So,” he said, his fingers making boxes that he then crushed by rubbing his hands together.
“Hello, Isaac.”
“I received your letter.”
Was he going to keep her standing there by the door like a stranger? She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Yes. And we need to talk about it. May I come in?”
He bent over and swept his hand into the room in a theatrical display of exaggerated courtesy. She walked past him and sat in a wing chair, gaining comfort from the way its sides protected her. She put her purse into her lap—still more protection. Something about his eyes violated her. If only she could read them better. If only she were not so afraid to look at him. She had practiced for this—she was a woman of the world now, she had told herself. She knew how to deal with all kinds of people. She thought of Nigel and his bloody nose. Just let him try…Her fingers tightened around her purse.
He sat down on the couch and leaned back, studying her with insolent appraisal, his brows knitted. His eyes followed the beautiful lines of her face down to her soft, exquisite neck and bosom.
“You look well, wife.”
The words, so possessive, went through her like an electric shock.
Wife?
“That is what we need to talk about, Isaac. The wife part.” She went on rapidly, afraid her courage would fail her. “I know, after all that has happened, whatever love you might have had for me must be gone and you will welcome this chance as I do to end this farce. I don’t want anything. You can have it all—the house, the money, the furniture. I only ask that for the sake of our son, you don’t drag this out. Let it be done with, quickly.”
“My dear wife,” he began in his soft, dangerous voice. Again a wave of fear passed through her. “You don’t understand me at all. I am thrilled that you have returned.” He got up and walked slowly over to her, kneeling suddenly at her feet. He pried her fingers from the bag and held them in his tightly. “I ask nothing more than for you to come back to me with our son. I will ask the court for
shalom bais
.”