The boy, dressed in a new white shirt and his nicest Sabbath pants, his hair neatly combed, sat up with new dignity. “Mazel
tov!” he said with hearty cheer, his smile mischievous. “Now can I go?” he begged his mother.
“Go,” Jenny sighed, “and no hit and runs, please, Menachem!” she smiled, watching him careen away. “Honestly, if they issued licenses to operate those things, his would have been revoked long ago! You remember Jesse and Ilana…” The children clung to her skirts, poking their heads out briefly to reveal shy smiles. “And this is my husband, Marc,” Jenny smiled proudly, turning to a tall, handsome man, clean shaven, with steady, warm green eyes.
Tamar nodded and smiled, noticing his arm draped affectionately around Jenny’s shoulder, something very unusual among religious couples in public places. At another time it would have shocked her. But somehow, now, the gesture warmed her.
“Can I hold the baby?” Marc asked.
“You’re lucky he asked your permission!” Jenny laughed. “Usually he just snatches babies right out of our friends’ arms.” Jenny punched him affectionately on his shoulder.
Tamar nodded, pleased, watching as Sara transferred the baby to Marc.
“ ‘I am dark, but I am comely,’ Song of Songs, remember? They say King Solomon was black, and Moses’ wife, Tziporah… little fellow,” he said softly. “All your toes, all your fingers, sight, hearing, sturdy little legs. G-d blessed him!” he said, nodding solemnly at Jenny.
That was one way of looking at it, Tamar thought, the words, the sight of the baby cradled in the big, handsome man’s arms, somehow giving her hope. “Where is everybody?” she said lightly, trying to keep the panic from her voice.
“You called it for ten. Ten Jewish time, remember?” Jenny calmed her. “That’s good for at least another half hour. He looks so peaceful, poor thing. Little do you know what you’re in for,
child.” She smiled sadly, leaning against Marc’s arm. “Is his mother here?”
Tamar shook her head. “Not yet.”
“I see. He will cry afterward. He’ll need some comforting… Do you have a bottle?”
“I think the hospital sent a bottle of formula with him.”
“Marc will put it in the fridge so we don’t have to plow through all those Hasidim in the kitchen. You better give Tamar back the baby first, though,” Jenny suggested.
He leaned toward Tamar with the baby.
She backed off, dropping her hands quickly to her sides. “Oh, better give him to Sara.”
Marc gave Jenny a quick, questioning glance, then gave the baby to Sara.
“I’m sorry. I just can’t…”
“It will be all right. You’ll see,” Marc said compassionately, with a confidence she found infinitely comforting.
The
mohel
had already laid out all his surgical equipment on a long, sterile white table. The chair of Elijah the prophet was readied for the
sandak
—the godfather—who would hold the child as the
mohel
did his work. Usually, families fought over who would have the honor to be
sandak
. Now, Tamar wasn’t even sure anyone could be persuaded to accept the honored position.
She looked at the long tables that held bottles of wine, glistening cold with moisture, and egg-glazed twisted challah breads. Plates and cups and forks were already set out for the banquet. Four hundred place settings.
At ten past ten, a couple from their apartment building turned up. And then one of the rebbes from the yeshiva came with five students. The greengrocer came with his wife. And the man who sold her fish. Cousins Velvel and Drora came. The trickle continued. Not hundreds, but dozens. As each one entered, she felt a sudden surge of hope. A trickle now, and then the river,
the hall filling, she thought. By ten-thirty there were about eighty people in the hall. By ten forty-five she realized even the trickle had stopped.
The only ugly Queen Esther, she thought. All my life… All the outer trappings, yet underneath, it was never right. She wanted to weep for each empty chair, for each unoccupied foot of space, for the silence, the scattered whispers. For her son and husband and for the poor guest of honor, tiny and oblivious of insult, about to be humiliated.
This must be the way G-d feels, she thought, when He looks into the synagogues on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, counting the number of sincere worshipers. A few good people here and a few there. Not as many as there should be. But not completely empty either, she tried to comfort herself.
“Hello, Tamar.”
She was a striking woman, tall and slim with tangled curls the color of honey, beautifully dressed in an expensive turquoise silk suit with a scarf of apple green, mauve, and gold. Tamar’s heart lurched.
The face was the same, its youthfulness a bit strained now, speaking of expensive skin care and excellent makeup. Only the eyes seemed changed: eyes that did not match the beautiful young-looking figure, the perfect bouncy hair. They were not unhappy eyes. Just eyes that had seen and experienced more than their share of everything, good and bad. They looked tired. And bored.
“Hadassah!”
“Mazel tov, Tamar.”
“You saw the baby?”
She nodded, giving Tamar a gentle hug that was more than polite. “He’s a healthy, beautiful baby. You know what I’d give for a healthy, beautiful baby? Any color, any sex?” She shook her head. “I’m not going to stay long. I’ve just done yet another
in vitro
.”
She shrugged. “I’ve got to get back into bed. Doctor’s orders.”
“Where are you living now?”
“I’ve got a house in St John’s Wood in London. And a small beach house in Kauai. Jack, my husband, has an apartment in Manhattan on the Upper East Side. And then there’s my house in La Jolla. We’re frequent fliers.”
She looked at Hadassah, wondering why she was so happy to see her. The friends of our youth. They brought back a whiff of silly pranks and harmless laughter, of hope and great expectations. “Slim and beautiful as ever, Hadassah.”
“Please. I’m as fat as a cow.” She plucked at her suit. “Size twelve. I wore a six forever, and then two years ago I gained all this weight, and nothing, absolutely nothing, helps.”
“I haven’t seen the inside of a twelve since tenth grade,” Tamar laughed. “You look gorgeous.”
Hadassah was very pleased. “You think so?”
“Yes. I do.”
“Well, then it was worth it to come just for that!”
“What are you doing now?”
“I have a film company. We make documentaries. Mostly nature films. My husband is a nature photographer. We met in Hawaii. We’ve done specials on whales and sharks and coral reefs. Very environmental. We spent the whole month of September on this little island in the Galápagos filming seals.”
“Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur on Galápagos with the seals,” Tamar said absently, looking over the crowd, not really paying attention to what she was saying.
“Well, right, it was great seeing you. And if I get lost in the… crowd… afterward, just let me say good-bye now. And good luck, really,” she said stiffly.
“Look, Hadassah, I’m not thinking straight. I didn’t mean to be self-righteous, to hurt your feelings… it was stupid of me. Thanks for coming. I really appreciate it.”
“Okay, okay. I’m too damn touchy on this subject. Let’s call a truce, shall we?”
“I certainly don’t need any more enemies. That’s for sure. Look at this place.” She bit her lip, her throat contracting. And then, Josh was at her side.
“There’s no point in waiting any longer, Tamar,” Josh told her, his face a mask.
“No! Wait just a few more minutes! Maybe traffic…”
Jenny held her hand. “It’s all right, Tamar. You did your best. You tried. Now just go on from here.”
Tamar wiped her eyes and nodded.
Josh told the
mohel
to begin. Sara handed the baby to Josh, and then Josh handed him to Aaron, and Aaron handed him to the
mohel
.
“Baruch habah!”
the
mohel
sang, holding up the child so all could see him.
There was a small gasp.
Blessed are you who comes.
The
mohel
laid the baby on the empty ceremonial chair, murmuring the prayers:
In your salvation do I trust, G-d,
For your salvation do I hope.
. . . I rejoice at your Word, as at finding a great treasure.
Great peace comes to the lovers of your Torah
For them there will be no impediment
Happy are those that choose their dwelling close to
Yours.
Tamar let the words fill her mouth, nourishing her. She looked around the almost empty hall, trying to imagine it filled to the doorposts. She tried to imagine Rabbi Kleinman and his wife and Gitta Chana standing in the front row smiling, all their
friends and relatives around them, their faces wreathed in delight. She tried to imagine all the yeshiva boys in their dark suits and white shirts clapping and singing, their eyes closed in the joy of doing a mitzvah. She tried to imagine the wives and daughters of the
admorim
crowding around behind the pious partition. She tried to imagine the head of the yeshiva sitting on the chair of Elijah the prophet, holding the baby in his arms.
She tried to imagine a different world.
She was imagining so hard that she almost thought she had imagined the doors of the hall suddenly opening and the hundreds of Hasidim who started pouring through, packing the room. And then she saw the sea of black part and an old rabbi with a long white beard walk through. Rabbi Mandlebright. The old Rebbe of Kovnitz. Someone ran to bring him a chair, but he shook his head, his once large, imposing frame now bent as if under a heavy load. Slowly, with dignity, he moved toward the front of the room. The Hasidim parted like the waters of the Red Sea to let him through. Josh hurried back to greet him.
“
Nisbe-ah be-toov baytecha, Kadosh hay-challecha,
” all the assembled guests shouted joyfully, the noise exploding like thunder through the suddenly packed room.
“Who is the child’s
sandak?
” the Rebbe inquired, looking at the empty chair.
No one answered him.
“Then perhaps I may have that great honor,” he said quietly.
“Who is the
sandak?
” Tamar heard people whispering to each other, wondering. “The Rebbe himself. The great Rebbe of Kovnitz!” came the awed reply, whispered again and again and again with great emotion. People who had come out of obligation or kindness or pity, hoping their presence would not be noticed, felt a sudden surge of unexpected pride. This would be something to brag about! “You know where I was yesterday? At the bris of the Finegold baby. Yes, yes that one! The black baby. But do you
know who the
sandak
was? The Rebbe of Kovnitz himself! I couldn’t believe it! I was standing right next to him!” To be in the same room with the Rebbe of Kovnitz! They had all heard of him, the great
tzadik
and scholar. The guests suddenly looked at the child and his father and grandparents with a puzzled sense of new respect.
The
mohel
waited for the Rebbe to be seated then handed him the child. The old Rebbe laid him lovingly across his knees.
“Blessed are you, King of the Universe, who sanctifies us with His commandments and commands us to perform circumcision.”
He looked at Aaron. “Are you the father of this child?”
Tamar watched her son, a sharp twinge twisting her heart. She saw his slow nod of affirmation. “Yes. I am this child’s father,” he answered.
Her eyes welled.
The Rebbe nodded to Aaron, handing him the siddur.
“Blessed are you, G-d, King of the Universe, that has sanctified us with His mitzvos and commanded us to bring this child into the covenant of Abraham our father.” Aaron read.
“And as you bring him into the covenant, so may he be brought to Torah, to the marriage canopy, and to good deeds!” the assembled guests shouted with joy, as was the custom.
The
mohel
cut the foreskin.
“
Mazel tov!!
” hundreds of voices shouted, the words slamming into the walls of the packed room, bouncing off the ceiling like confetti.
Through the shouting, Tamar heard it: the cry of the newborn! That insistent, demanding, amazed, forlorn, terrified, helpless, desperate sound! A cry like no other, not sad, not hurt, but reckless, tortured, a sound that pierces the heart like surgical steel. Tamar held her breath, her whole motherly being suddenly yearning toward it with an instinct beyond control.
Someone has to hold him, she thought. Sara did not know how to hold a crying baby. Nor did Malka. But she did. She leaned over, lifting the screaming child from the pillow, hugging him to her breast, pacifying him with cotton dipped in sweet wine. He sucked, his sobs quieting, his eyes closing drowsily.
She looked at him. He was yawning, his nose wrinkling, disturbed. She studied his features. He looked, she realized, like a baby. A beautiful little baby. Not a miniature hundred-and-seventy-pound black rapist. But he did not look like
her
baby, or any baby that had ever been born into her family, her people. He looked like a stranger.
The guests made their way to the tables. Not a seat was empty. The Rebbe crossed the hall to a place of honor beside Aaron and Josh. Jenny walked quickly toward the Rebbe, Jesse and Ilana clinging to her arms, Menachem propelling his wheelchair forward with gay recklessness. The Rebbe nodded and smiled at Jenny, bending down to talk to Menachem.
From across the room, Hadassah watched, almost hypnotized, as her father laid his hands in turn on the heads of Jenny’s children, blessing them. Slowly, almost like a sleep-walker, she walked toward him.
The Rebbe watched her moving closer, the bright colors of her dress, the gold of her hair hurting his eyes like a glare of concentrated light.
Shayne maidel. Shayne, shayne maidel
, voices long silent shouted inside him, hands clapping, feet stamping the floor in joy. He closed his eyes and saw her again in the beaded russet velvet. A beautiful little queen, he remembered, his chest growing warm as if somehow, once again, a little girl’s light, graceful body was leaning back into his arms…