Authors: Naomi Ragen
He looked at his watch. It was even possible they’d boarded the plane already, which meant they’d be home for the weekend! He’d have to order more food, he thought, reaching for a pad to jot down a shopping list: drinks, paper napkins, roast chickens…
Then he let the pen slip, laying it down in front of him. He got up restlessly, stretching his arms above his head, leaning down to touch his toes. He was completely out of shape, having canceled his gym and country-club memberships.
Exercise and networking and friendship had all been interwoven; to lose one was to lose them all.
He walked through the empty hallways, peeking into the rooms with their stale, neatly made-up beds where once his children and guests had slept. No one had used them for months. He climbed down the regal, winding staircase, studying the now-dusty photographs of a lifetime of joyous family occasions, everyone dressed up and smiling, and young. So young.
The house was silent, except for his footsteps and the occasional creak of a floorboard beneath the plush carpeting. A house was an enclosure, he realized. Nothing more. You infused life into it. And that life made it worthwhile. Otherwise, it was an empty shell, no matter how beautiful. You couldn’t buy a home. You could only buy a house. Both had been taken from him, he thought, suddenly filled with rage.
He had always been a religious man. He prayed, if a bit hurriedly, three times a day. He belonged to a synagogue. He was charitable. He was honest. He loved God. He loved other people. And yet, all this had happened to him. Where, then, was God? Was it true, as some said, that He was like a watchmaker who had set the world in motion, then gone off? Or a distant observer, who did not involve Himself in the tiny details of each man’s existence, allowing nature to take its course? He didn’t want to believe that. But the truth was, he didn’t know.
He could no longer hear God’s voice. And thus, perhaps, God had stopped hearing his, his prayers falling like rain into the sea.
Be patient, he told himself. Isn’t that what you would tell your children if they came to you wanting instant results?
The wheels of justice grind slow, but they grind exceedingly fine.
He felt his fingers tingle from the terrible tension of forced inaction. Terrible to be targeted by evil men, a fly caught in their web, struggling to break free. Terrible to be at the mercy of a system that was blind and often cruel. Terrible to be dependent on the goodwill of others. And most terrible of all was to face all these things alone.
It was 5:00
P.M
. when the phone rang.
“Abby, is that you?” He gripped the phone gratefully, almost feeling her beside him. “I was just making up a shopping list in case you and Kayla are going to be here by the weekend… What? What did you just say?”
It was her beloved voice, yet so far away, he thought. So distant. It was hard to hear. Or perhaps his ears could just not absorb what she was saying.
“Abigail, I’m trying to understand. What do you mean we should leave her alone, that she’s happy? Have you lost your mind? You are on a hilltop in the middle of nowhere. Your daughter has a brilliant legal career, a successful and loving fiancé, waiting for her. Why would you encourage her to give all that up? Why would you betray me like this, just now?”
He listened intently, shaking his head. It was all new-age spiritual mumbo jumbo. She sounded like some groupie. His sensible wife! His beloved helpmate! What had they done to her? Was she on drugs? he wondered. Or had the cult gotten to her, too?
“Listen to me carefully. I don’t know what you are smoking, or what detergent they have used on your frontal lobes. You are killing me. I want you to take Kayla and get on the next plane out of there. We can talk about all of this at home. Don’t say that! You can’t mean it! ABIGAIL, IF YOU DO THIS, I WILL NEVER, EVER FORGIVE YOU FOR AS LONG AS I LIVE. Abigail?” He shook the phone, but it had simply gone dead.
He sat still for a moment, considering his options. Hesitantly, he reached for the phone, then hung up. He sat back, thinking. Then he leaned forward, reluctantly picking it up again. “Seth, this is Adam. Can you come over right away? It’s an emergency.”
26
On Friday night, Abigail joined The Talmidim in the dining hall. She lit Sabbath candles and heard the blessing over wine. She sat down at a long table next to Kayla and Daniel. Platters of steaming meat, chicken, and vegetables were brought. There was a burst of Sabbath songs, and conversation, and suddenly Rav Natan stood up, and everyone settled down to listen:
“Reb Chaim Vitale says: Every blade of grass has its own song. Every rock, every tree. The prophets sang their message. Rabbi Carlebach says: We have the words of their songs, but we’ve lost the melody. The Talmud says mankind has ten songs to sing, and we have already sung nine. There is not much time left. We must find it again before it is too late. Together, mankind must sing their tenth and final song.”
Someone began to sing:
Da diddy da da
Da diddy da da
DA DA DA
Ashira l’Hashem b’chayai
Azamra l’Elokai b’yodi
Ye’erav alav sichi
Anochi esmach b’Hashem
The voices grew louder, the rhythm tapped out on tabletops, with clapping hands and stamping feet jumping up and down on the floor. Again and again, the words were repeated, until they became almost hypnotic. People closed their eyes, swaying ecstatically.
Some of the men began to put their arms over the shoulders of other men, and then some of the women did the same with other women so that the entire room was now connected physically. And when the room seemed ready to burst with the intensity of communal joy, someone left the swaying row and began to dance. Immediately, circles were formed, men on one side, women on the other. The song turned into a swirling dance of dizzying speed. In the background, the Arab chef danced too, clapping his hands with the others.
Then all of a sudden, someone said: “Shush!”
There was complete silence. No one moved.
The silence and stillness were startling after so much sound and movement. And then this same person began the song again, starting with a whisper, barely audible. The rhythm was firm, deliberate, each word following the other slowly, as if it was only one note, and there was no song at all, just one emphatic statement following another.
Da
Diddy
Da
Da
Eyes were clenched shut, hands became fists, as people sucked into themselves, their concentration frightening in its intensity. Some continued to hum the notes, while others sang the words, and the two combined in a rousing harmonic chorus of amazing strength.
Abigail found her mouth forming the words. Her eyes too had clenched shut. She was no longer an observer she realized, completely caught up.
Ashira
(I will sing)
l’Hashem
(to God)
b’chayai
(with all my life)
Azamra l’Elokai b’yodi
(I will praise Him as long as I have being)
Ye’erav alav sichi
(Sweet will be my words)
Anochi esmach b’Hashem
(And I will rejoice in God)
A woman in a swirling purple skirt, her hair covered in a blue head scarf, reached out a hand to bring Abigail into the circle. She grasped it, like a climber about to fall through a crevice, pulling herself up.
She had nothing holding her up, she realized. She was a dust mote, floating in the air. Everything solid had disappeared beneath her feet. Her place in the world had been snatched by robbers in the night, her niche wiped out, her feet with no resting place.
Suddenly, the steps of the hora from her days in Zionist youth groups came back to her. Her feet were not the feet of the grandmother, but the girl, she thought. They did not need to rest, but to go forward. She closed her eyes, and mouthed the words:
I will sing to God with all my life
She felt her heart shed its heavy burdens, like a young sheep shorn of its winter growth. She felt lighter.
I will praise Him as long as I have being
She held on tightly to the hands reaching out to her. They knew nothing about each other except that they were human and alive, filled with human hopes and passions and heartaches. They had drawn her into their circle because at this moment in time, she was alive, and so were they. That was a miracle in itself. Of all the generations that preceded her, and all that would follow her, she was part of this one.
That was the connection every human being had with every other human being: being alive at the same moment in time. And whether it was a tsunami come up from the splitting mountains on the ocean’s floor to drown and destroy or an evil army of barbarians raping and pillaging small villages in remote African regions, every single person alive was affected by it. It tore holes in the fabric of human existence, and all who were alive were part of it and—if they were truly human—suffered.
But the most difficult connection of all was to the person next door, or next
to you on the bus, or at your own dinner table. The closer someone was, the harder it was to reach out to them, because one’s own flesh was vulnerable, one’s own soul fragile.
The fear of “getting involved,” of catching disease, or worry, or misery from someone else, of draining the resources and energy needed for one’s own problems, was the fear of her generation. Only when that wall of fear could be pulled down and the ocean of compassion allowed to flood through, encompassing all human beings, could anyone alive in any generation feel safe to live until he died.
The medicine to any disease, the poultice to any wound, the magic elixir to any heartache was in those waters. But like the waters in biblical wells, they were covered with a stone too large for only one person to lift. It needed collective effort. It needed mankind moving together, shoulder to shoulder, with combined strength, to take away the barriers to the endless supply of cure and comfort available. It needed resolute resistance against evil, brutality, savagery, and lies. It needed courage.
She walked to her daughter, putting her arms around her.
“Don’t go back to the old life, Kayla! There is nothing there for you, for anyone. It is a dead place, full of dead ideas, filled with misguided ambition and unreal dreams. Don’t waste your life chasing them, as I did. Don’t marry Seth out of obligation or because he’s a ‘catch’ if you don’t love him! Don’t be a lawyer if you want to be a poet!”
Kayla held her breath, listening to this outpouring. “Mom?”
Abigail said nothing, pulling her daughter into the circle. They danced, singing the same words, each time with a greater intensity.
27
“Of course, Adam. I appreciate your calling me. I don’t know what to say. I’ll think about it and let you know. Good-bye.” Seth hung up the phone. He turned off his computer, slammed his textbook shut, then put on his coat.
“In this blizzard?” Medgar asked, concerned. The drifts were already a foot deep, and the sky had turned the color of dirty water.
“Yeah, well,” Seth answered distractedly, pulling on a scarf and gloves, and closing the door behind him.
His nose hairs hung like icicles and the frigid air filled his lungs. He walked quickly, oblivious to his surroundings, the fury burning inside him like a furnace, keeping him warm.
How had it come to this? Who was responsible? His perfect life, slipping through his fingers. She wasn’t coming back. She might even, her father had hinted, be involved with someone else.
He smashed his fist into his palm. He’d kept telling himself all she needed was a little distance from the stressful situation for a little while; that it was temporary. It had never occurred to him that she might also, at the same time, be distancing herself from him. And most of all, it had never crossed his mind that this might be permanent.
He had never imagined that he might lose her forever.
Up until the very moment of that desperate phone call from her father, he had sincerely believed he knew Kayla Samuels as well as he knew himself and that they wanted the same things out of life. After his initial outburst of fury—a tactic which had not proven very useful in achieving his goals—he had regrouped, deciding on a different tactic. He had taken her late-night phone calls and done her bidding, spending time with her father and passing on the information she gave him in his own name. It had cost him some precious time, true, but little else to indulge her cloak-and-dagger fantasies of saving her father from thousands of miles away. Besides, if the information turned out to be false, it wouldn’t be his problem. And if it was true, he’d get all the credit. At the very least, he thought it would regain him her forgiveness and her love.
How could he have misjudged the situation, misjudged
her,
so completely? On some level, she’d been his mirror. But perhaps he had not been honest with himself. Perhaps he had seen what most people see in a mirror: what they are looking for, ignoring all the rest. Had he edited out all those things about her he hadn’t liked or understood or agreed with?
He suddenly had an image of her, sitting in a movie theater watching something that stirred her emotions—the soft rise and fall of her breasts, the way she sucked in her breath and her lovely lips trembled at something actors in a pretend story were faking for their paychecks. He had never understood that part of her, her vulnerability, her willingness to suspend her intelligence and have her emotions manipulated. He had leaned over, and whispered: “Don’t cry, honey. After this scene, he goes back to his mistress and his cocaine stash in Hollywood, and his dead girlfriend will be getting breast implants.” She had responded to his teasing with fury, calling him a coldhearted bastard. “You are perfect lawyer material,” she had hissed contemptuously, as if that were an insult. He’d been shocked, but had soon laughed it off as inconsequential.