The World Outside

I would like to thank my husband and my children for their belief in me. They are my first readers and my first critics.

My thanks are also due to my editors, Sue Tate and Janice Weaver, who never led me wrong.

There are many people whose wisdom made this book possible. In Winnipeg, the advice of Rabbi Ari Ellis, James Manishen and my Lubavitcher friends was invaluable. In Toronto, Dr. Sam Weizman and, in Vancouver, Rabbi Yechiel Baitelman enlightened me. I was welcomed to Crown Heights and helped by Rishe Deitsch, Rabbi Motti Seligson, Tamar Adelstein and Richard E. Green. Last, but certainly not least, I owe my gratitude to the brave souls who shared their stories with me—Chanie, Tzvi, Yehudit and Yossi: I will never forget you.

“Without question, the material world
and your everyday needs distract you
from living meaningfully.”

RABBI MENACHEM MENDEL SCHNEERSON

PROLOGUE
Crown Heights, Brooklyn
JULY
1991

A
s I hear the thud of the earth hitting my brother Moishe’s casket, I begin to doubt that the Master of the Universe loves each one of us as if we were his only child. As I hear the wails coming out of Mama’s throat, as I see Baba tearing her hair, I finally come to the decision that I will go to the City. There has to be more out there. More than in my Lubavitch community of Crown Heights.

The black, moist earth is piling up in the grave, weighing down the plain wooden casket. It must be so dark in there, and poor Moishe is so afraid of the dark. He whimpers and cries and won’t let go of my hand when the night-light by his bed burns out.

It’s just the kind of day that Moishe likes—hot and humid. Perspiration is running down my back and seeping into the high collar of my long dress. The sun burns the top of my head. For a moment, I pretend that
Moishe is sitting in his wheelchair in front of me. I lean over and wipe the spittle from the corner of his mouth. Then I push him down Eastern Parkway, all the way to Prospect Park. We stop and rest under the shade of the trees. He grins whenever a ray of sun sneaks through the foliage and kisses his cheeks, and he greedily gulps water from the bottle I hold to his lips. I talk to him the whole time, telling him all my secrets. Mama says that I’m a fool to bother, that Moishe can’t understand a single word. But I know different. Sometimes there’s a flicker in my brother’s eyes that tells me he understands more than we give him credit for.

The hollow thump as Papa and my brothers throw down their shovels brings me back from my daydream. Moishe is gone. There is only the grave and a mound of dirt.

“Let’s go home,” Papa says. He wipes his face with a grimy hand, leaving a smear of dirt on his cheek above his long gray beard. He turns toward my mother and grandmother. “You okay, Miriam? Mother?” They nod. Four-year-old Ruthie, the daughter of my brother Avrohom Isaac, runs up. Papa scoops her into his arms. “Let’s go home,” he repeats, starting heavily for the parking lot, followed closely by my brothers. We are hot on their heels, as are the remaining members of my Lubavitch community. Everybody has come to say good-bye to Moishe.

My parents and Baba get into one of the limousines waiting for us. My brother Yossi follows them. I am about to climb in too when my sister-in-law Esther, Avrohom Isaac’s wife, calls to me. “Chanie,” she says, “come with us. We have room for you.”

I follow her. Avrohom Isaac is in the front seat, beside the driver. Esther and I climb into the back, my twelve-year-old nephew, Eliyahu, between us. Esther is bouncing Ari, the youngest of her eight children, on her lap.

As we drive out of the cemetery, I catch a glimpse of a man in a sky blue shirt half hidden by the trunk of a tree. It is hard to miss him in that sea of men in black suits, white shirts and black hats. David has a blue shirt that same shade. Did he come to the funeral? When I look again, the man in the blue shirt has disappeared.

CHAPTER 1
Five Months Earlier
FEBRUARY
1991

“L
et’s go to the mall on Sunday afternoon to give out candles and pamphlets,” Faygie said while twirling her scarf around her throat. “There are always a lot of people there over the weekend.” She peered at me expectantly.

I didn’t know what to say. I knew that the Rebbe wanted all Lubavitcher Hasidim to reach out to our fellow Jews. He wanted us to teach them how to practice the customs of our religion. And those of us who followed the teachings of Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson always did whatever he asked. None of us ever questioned the Rebbe. He was everything to us. He was our
Tzaddik
, our Just Man, and he helped every one of us connect our souls to G-d, whom we called Hashem.

Still, I found it so awkward to walk up to strange women in malls or subway stations and offer them
Shabbos candles with instructions on how to light them. My hands would tremble and my stomach would lurch. I was barely able to squeak when I had to approach someone and ask “Are you Jewish?”

“So are you going to come with me?” Faygie asked.

“I don’t know.…”

She put her hands on her hips. “Surely you didn’t forget that Mrs. Rosenfeld will dock us marks if we don’t do outreach three times each term?” she said. “How many times have you gone already?”

Faygie and I were in grade twelve at Bais Rivkah, the Lubavitcher girls’ high school in Crown Heights. Mrs. Rosenfeld, our homeroom teacher, had no mercy if we didn’t follow her rules.

I couldn’t help sighing. “I haven’t gone even once. Okay, I’ll go with you.”

“Great! I’ll pick up the candles at the outreach office before we go. And don’t be so glum about it. Like the Rebbe says, we never know which deed will tip the scale toward goodness in the eternal struggle between good and evil. You know as well as I do that if goodness is triumphant, the Messiah will come! Think of it, Chanie! By giving out candles, we might be responsible for the Messiah arriving on Earth!” She smiled knowingly. “Some people believe that He is already among us. If that’s the case, then we must certainly do what the Rebbe asks of us.”

Faygie, like many Lubavitchers—including my parents—believed that Rabbi Schneerson might be the Messiah.

I nodded to show that I agreed with her, but when I peered at her ecstatic expression, I couldn’t help thinking,
How can you be so sure?

“It’ll be fun,” Faygie promised. “Let’s ask Devorah Leah to come with us.”

I shrugged. “Fine with me.”

She opened the door to our brownstone, and as she did, the wind blew snow through the foyer and right into my face.

“We’ll pick you up at two,” she called over her shoulder, then kissed her fingers and touched the mezuzah on the doorframe before stomping down the steep staircase. “Good Shabbos!”

I closed the door and went to the kitchen to look for Mama. The aroma of roasting chicken made my mouth water. My mother was bent over a pot, her cheeks rosy, her wig askew. Music from the opera
Rigoletto
was blaring from a cassette player on the kitchen counter. I closed my eyes and, for an instant, I was the singer on the cassette. But then Mama saw me and turned off the music.

“About time you showed your face,” she said curtly. “Moishe is waiting to be fed.” She straightened up and rolled her shoulders. “You’re old enough to know your duties without constantly having to be reminded.” Her
voice was sharp, as it always was when she spoke to me.