Sisters Weiss ~ A Novel Page 15

  Predictably, social custom had risen up to ensure that women didn’t get too uppity, defusing the explosiveness of a society filled with educated women married to unworldly men. Yes, they let their girls learn how to run a store, or teach—or, nowadays, become an accountant or a computer programmer. But, God forbid, they would not be allowed to go to college or become a doctor or lawyer or artist. For how could an unworldly, uneducated yeshiva boy cope with a wife like that?

  She thought of her cousin. Perhaps that was why they married off their girls so young, before they had a chance to look around and get ideas into their heads? And when that didn’t work, social custom ensured that breaking an engagement and getting a divorce were major hurdles completely under the men’s control.

  A sudden vision of Rivka’s letter tossed carelessly between the leaking pens, half-used tissues, lipsticks, and dusty change in her overstuffed bag made her ache with guilt. Isn’t it my obligation as an enlightened woman to reach out a helping hand? Almost immediately, the thought was countered by a backlash of annoyance of equal intensity. How did she find my address?

  “What did I miss?”

  She looked up to her left. It was that new guy, Simon Narkis. She felt the butterflies flap their tiny wings inside her stomach. He was a transfer student from Chicago. He had long, straight dark hair and Trotsky eyeglasses and wore a black leather jacket over a vintage T-shirt in some wild sixties print. Today he had a well-worn copy of Madame Bovary sticking out of his pocket—one of her all-time favorites.

  There was something intense and appealing about his lean face, Hannah thought, studying him as nonchalantly as she could. While he certainly didn’t have the sex appeal of a Jason, he seemed to have … something else of equal attractiveness. Mystery maybe? He was a Judaic studies major, minoring in Jewish literature, which also piqued her interest. His smile was shy, almost secretive, making you feel it wasn’t shared with just anyone. He was definitely someone she was interested in getting to know.

  “Late again, Simon?” Jason said, leaning over her to look at him, a touch of rivalry in his pose, which delighted her.

  “Yeah, don’t I know it! I’m working in a bookstore on Second Avenue and the traffic is sometimes impossible.”

  “Well, it’s just a wild suggestion, but have you ever considered using that car your parents bought you—or even the subway—instead of your bike…?” Jason smirked.

  “Fossil fuels…” Simon shook his head.

  “Fossil fools…” Jason said under his breath, rolling his eyes.

  “Now, now, boys.” Hannah smiled.

  Jason leaned back, whispering in her ear: “So, how are your party plans coming along?”

  “Oh, that,” she answered, flattered he even remembered. She’d mentioned it once, casually.

  “What was that about a party?” Simon asked.

  She looked at him and smiled. Why not? A party after finals where she could laugh and drink soothing alcoholic beverages and forget about saving all the oppressed women of the world … She’d invite them both.

  “I’ll let you know soon,” she said, reaching into her purse for her lipstick.

  The white envelope inadvertently came with it, dropping silently and unnoticed to the floor.

  18

  Murray Hill, Manhattan, December 31, 2007

  “We can use another pitcher of margaritas. Can I do the honors?” Jason asked.

  The party was in full swing. Every space in Hannah’s tiny apartment was filled with sound: laughter, favorite songs playing at random from her iPod, and earnest, beer-fueled debates.

  “Sure. Thanks, Jason.” She smiled at his California good looks only to be distracted by the unsettling vision of Simon, the intellectual, deep in earnest conversation with Stacy. She followed Stacy’s glossy, manicured nails as they flipped back her shiny blond hair. Were Simon’s eyes shining, or glazing over from boredom? Hannah moved anxiously toward him to get a better look.

  The doorbell was ringing again.

  “Do you want me to get that?” Simon eased himself off the couch, turning away from Stacy rather quickly, Hannah judged, hopeful.

  Stacy nodded toward the door. “He’s calling you.”

  Simon was looking out into the hall, a strange smile on his face. He turned to Hannah: “She won’t come in. She says you’re her ‘cuzin.’”

  Hannah hurried to the door.

  Rivka stood there, a shy, hopeful smile on her rain-soaked face, her ugly gray raincoat covered in melting snow, her chilled feet in horrible, opaque, seamed stockings and laced up black old-lady shoes.

  “Cuzin Hannah,” she said softly. “You got my letter?”

  Simon stared from one to the other, his eyebrows raised, waiting.

  “Thanks, Simon. I’ll … be right back.” Hannah pushed him gently inside, closing the door behind her.

  “Rivka?”

  She nodded. “I waited so long for you to call. But then you didn’t. So I thought … maybe … the letter … it maybe got lost.”

  “Why are you here, Rivka?”

  “I’ve run away!”

  “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  Her bright blue eyes filled with tears. “I can’t wait anymore! If it’s not good, I can go…”

  She picked up a small battered suitcase, then turned toward the stairs and began to climb down.

  For a split second, Hannah watched her go. Then, she ran down after her.

  “Rivka! Where are you going?”

  The girl sat down on the steps. “I don’t know.”

  Hannah took the suitcase out of her cold, bare hand. “Come on.”

  She led her back up the steps and into her noisy apartment. She could see the girl’s eyes widen in surprise bordering on shock at everything she saw.

  “It’s your birthday?”

  Hannah turned to stare at her. Was she serious? “Honey, it’s New Year’s Eve!”

  “A Rosh Hashanah party? In December?”

  Was she for real? “Oh, wow! Never mind. These are some of my friends from college. Would you like to take off your coat and join us? Have a drink? I can introduce you to everyone.”

  “Oh, no!” the girl said in alarm, shaking her head.

  Hannah exhaled slowly. “Well, come into my bedroom then. I’ll close the door. You can have some privacy.”

  Hannah hurried Rivka through the crowd without stopping to make introductions, taking their stares in stride and answering with a shrug. A couple she barely knew was sitting on her coat-covered bed, making out.

  She coughed. “Sorry, guys. Family emergency.”

  When they were gone, she locked the door behind her.

  “Cuzin, maybe I’ll go…”

  “Rivka, take off that soaking-wet coat and sit down! I’m not letting you go anywhere in this weather and certainly not on New Year’s Eve at this time of night! By the way, where do your parents think you are? They could call the cops!”

  “They have no right to force me to stay and get married…” Her voice was almost hysterical.

  “Look, calm down! I agree with you! But if you are under eighteen, they still have some legal rights over you.”

  She sat down, suddenly quiet. “And after that?”

  “You’ll be an adult.”

  Her face brightened. “Cuzin, in two months I’m eighteen! Could I just stay by you until then? Imyertza Hashem, I won’t make any trouble.” She looked around hopefully. “Since the time I’m little, I cleaned the whole house, washed dishes, peeled potatoes, cooked.”

  Hannah felt her heart melt as she listened to this eager offer. Poor thing! What a life! Nonetheless, her mother’s warnings still echoed in her head. “Did you at least leave your family a note?”

  Rivka jumped up, shaking her head violently, braced to flee. “You don’t understand, Cuzin! The second they know where I am, they’ll come and get me and make me go home to do what they want!”

  “All right, then. Don’t tell them where you are. Just make sure t
hey don’t think you’ve been kidnapped or murdered. Anything else would be just too cruel.”

  Rivka sat down. “I could ask my friend Malca in Bnei Brak to call them. She could say I was there with her and that I’m fine.”

  “What or where’s that, Benny Barack?”

  “It’s in Israel. Near Tel Aviv.”

  “So, this friend will cover for you?”

  “Vus is dus, ‘cover’?”

  “Huh?”

  “What means that word, ‘cover’?”

  “Oh. It means will she agree to lie, to say that you’re there?”

  She nodded eagerly. “Since we know each other, we lie for each other.”

  This admission took Hannah aback, clashing horribly as it did with the stereotype in her head that people who dressed like Hassidim must also be honest and kind and truthful, that it was a package deal that went together, like Malibu Barbie and her beach accessories. She had to stop thinking in clichés.

  “Well, call her then.”

  “Ah, Cuzin. I don’t have a phone anymore.… I left it home. My parents could maybe trace it.”

  She had shrewdly thought of everything, Hannah realized, seeing her in a new light. “Well, mine is right on the night table. Call Malca and tell her to call your parents, immediately.”

  “But Cuzin, it’s four in the morning in Bnei Brak!”

  “Oh, right. Well, then call her in a few hours.”

  “It’s long distance.”

  “Whatever!” Hannah replied, exasperated. “It has to be done, Rivka. You understand? You can’t stay here without telling your parents you’re fine.”

  “And then you’ll let? Until I’m eighteen?” she wheedled, suddenly straightening her back.

  Who was she, really? A little bird who had just left the nest on her first attempt to fly? Or a master manipulator? Hannah wondered, studying her more closely.

  She seemed so fragile and so very young and trusting, like Little Red Riding Hood on her way to Grandma’s house, Hannah thought, gripped by a sudden pity, her cynicism fading into a sense of shame. Had her cuzin really been a little bird, there was no question she’d have picked her up and nursed her, accepting all the complications and messiness that entailed, hoping only to help get her strong enough to fly out again into the wild.

  “Let’s just take this thing one day at a time, shall we? Are you hungry, thirsty? Would you like to come out and meet my friends?”

  “No, no, no! Thank you. But I’m very … tired. Could I just lay down here for a little while?”

  “Sure.” Hannah pushed aside the coats, making room. “And, please, don’t forget to make that phone call later, will you?”

  “Don’t worry, Cuzin. I’ll tell Malca to tell my parents I’m on my way to her in Israel.”

  “And when they call to speak to you the next day, then what?”

  “She’ll say I’m not talking to them, that I’m mad on them … Don’t worry, Cuzin, we’ll think of something. Anyway, parents like mine, they don’t start with the police. They call them ‘the Cossacks.’”

  A shudder went down Hannah’s spine at the idea of people so far removed from anyone she could imagine in America. “And what if they call that other group, the Modesty Patrol?”

  “Vus is dus?” She shrugged.

  Was she being disingenuous? Or sincere? Hannah couldn’t tell. “Okay, then. I’ll just close this door, but don’t lock it, because I’ll have to come in and get the coats when people leave. I’ll just tell everyone not to come in.”

  “Thank you so much, Cuzin Chana. You are a tzadakis.”

  “Whatever,” she sighed, glancing behind her with a deep sense of unease before closing the door.

  “Who is that?” Stacy whispered.

  “My cousin Rivka.”

  “Your family, really?” Jason said. “She looked very nineteenth century.”

  “More like the Amish,” Stacy giggled. “Those clothes, really. And the braids, the stockings.”

  “If you must know, she’s from one of those ultra-Orthodox families in Brooklyn. My mother’s family.”

  “Ooops.” Stacy grinned.

  “She’s run away from an arranged marriage,” Hannah blurted out impulsively, wanting to wipe that stupid smile off Stacy’s face.

  “Married? She looks, like, twelve,” Jason murmured.

  “She’s almost eighteen. But she’s very naive and innocent. I can’t let her wander around Manhattan.”

  “Eighteen?” Jason repeated, causing Hannah to wonder at his interest in this particular point.

  “That’s really kind of you, Hannah. But it sounds like it might get a bit messy,” Simon pointed out.

  “Yeah, her parents could call the cops,” Stacy yawned, downing the last of her drink.

  Although she herself had said and thought exactly the same things, Hannah found their warnings annoying. “She wants to study for her college entrance exams. She’s interested in being a doctor,” Hannah answered, none of it sounding very plausible, even to her.

  “Well, if she needs help, I used to tutor for the SATs,” Jason offered.

  “Oh, you can count me in for that, too,” Simon cut in earnestly. “I’d be happy to tutor her, Hannah. I think what you’re doing is beautiful.”

  “Right,” Stacy said under her breath, rolling her eyes. “I’ll bet. And the fact that she’s a blonde, completely innocent and virginal, and almost legal age has nothing at all to do with it, guys, huh?”

  “Not all men think in those terms, Stacy,” Simon said stiffly.

  But Jason just grinned.

  *

  The next morning, Hannah made her way through the postparty debris, her head a bundle of jangling nerve endings throbbing with exhaustion. No, it wasn’t a bad dream. There she was, her cuzin, spread out on that awful sofa.

  Her tiny body looked lost in the old-fashioned flannel nightgown that covered her from head to toe, giving her the charming, old-fashioned air of one of those bonneted daughters from Little House on the Prairie. Her cheeks were a soft pastel pink, like a flushed baby’s. She had not a speck of blush or eyeliner or powder on her. Her incredibly long hair pooled on the floor, its polished gold without artifice or ornament.

  Poor thing, Hannah thought, then wondered if it was herself she was really feeling sorry for. It was so much easier to keep your charities at arm’s length. To buy bag ladies lattes was one thing. To invite them to move in with you quite another.

  As quietly as she could, she cleaned up, emptying ashtrays, disposing of paper cups, and sweeping cookie and potato chip crumbs into neat piles that she scooped up and disposed of. Before leaving, she taped an extra key and a long note full of instructions and explanations to the inside door of the apartment. Full of misgivings, she hurriedly locked the door behind her, hoping that the farther she went, the more the stranger on her sofa would fade from her thoughts into a soft blur.

  *

  Rivka got up around noon, the sunlight baking her head, making her squint. “Oy!” she whispered, caressing her aching back. When the party was over, she’d insisted on giving Hannah back her bed, choosing the sofa over the sleeping bag her cousin offered. It had been a terrible mistake.

  “Cuzin?” she called out, but the house was quiet except for the ceaseless thrum of New York traffic noise. She made her way to the bathroom, staring at her face in the smudged old mirror. She smiled. “Free,” she whispered, shaking her head in amazed delight.

  The phone call to her friend in Israel had gone well. Poor Malca! She’d been caught out on her very first date. Her parents had been outraged, swiftly marrying her off to the Sephardi, a boy she hardly knew. Although he wore a skullcap and was observant of the Sabbath and holidays, her parents had been heartbroken, having dreamed of an Ashkenazi Torah scholar for a son-in-law. Soon after the wedding, wishing to put the whole debacle out of sight and thus hopefully out of mind, they’d shipped the couple off to Israel. They’d been married now barely three months.

  �
�So, how is he?”

  “He’s very different than my father,” Malca had whispered over the phone. “I never saw him open a Talmud. He goes to work during the day, and we even have a television in the house. But he expects me to cook him couscous and kebab, and won’t eat gefilte fish … What do I know from couscous and kebab? Don’t worry, Rivka. I’ll call your mother and swear you’re on your way here. But she won’t be happy.”

  “For sure. You think I don’t know?”

  There was a pause. “Why’d you do it, Rivka?”

  “You need to ask? They’re pushing me.”

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  Rivka was silent for a few moments. “I know? I’ll be all right, Malca. I’ll do what I always dreamed of doing.”

  Only when she hung up did she allow herself to fully imagine the heartbreak and fury Malca’s call would bring her family. But it couldn’t be helped. She didn’t want a husband bossing her around, explaining her duties to her when she moved out of her parents’ house and they stopped telling her what to do. She didn’t want to be a pleasing and obedient wife and daughter-in-law, one who would cater to her husband’s physical needs and help him to fulfill the mitzvah of procreation. All she could feel as she’d looked ahead into the future they envisioned for her was a growing sense of dread, the world and its possibilities desiccating, shrinking into a tiny cell that she would be forced to crawl into, a space hardly big enough to breathe, let alone grow and move and explore.

  There had to be more!

  Her whole life she’d been subjected to numerous warnings about the fate of girls who did not measure up (that is, submit to their fate), warnings meant to terrorize and instill fear. They’d backfired, especially those whispered about the terrible fate of her glamorous aunt Rose.

  For the first nine years of her life, she had been barely aware of her aunt Rose’s existence, gleaning vague scraps of information from low, excited whispers in Yiddish that stopped the moment her presence was sensed. But during her grandmother’s shiva, the floodgates had burst. Her aunt Rose had been practically the only thing people talked about: How she’d shortened Granny’s life (she was eighty-seven). How she hadn’t even had the decency to come to the funeral or to pay her respects with a shiva call! How the shandah she’d created would brand the family for decades.